


Atlantica

by PunkHazard



Series: Atlantica [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curtis Everett approaches Stacker with a rough business proposition and a band of misfits eager to depose Wilford, offering to put the prestigious Snowpiercer speakeasy in his pocket and its boss in the morgue. Stacker doesn’t like risk, but what it comes down to is that he hates Wilford more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: pretty much all of the terms referring to the people of color in this fic are considered OUTDATED and OFFENSIVE today (mostly as a result of what happened while those terms were still in use), but were more or less the accepted terminology at the time. don't use them IRL basically ever and understand that if you refer to people the way some characters in this VERY period-specific fic refer to each other, you're liable to get punched in the face (and you would deserve it too if you ignored this disclaimer).

Grey’s thirteen when his father dies, leaving nothing for his son but the sheepskin bomber jacket he’d worn through the Great War. Gilliam, the elderly neighbor who'd kept a careful eye on him ever since his mother passed away of consumption, dies when he's sixteen.

He was never much of a talker anyway, but after Gilliam’s fall down his tenement stairs (pushed, Grey’d tried to explain, someone had _pushed_ Gilliam, but the police pretended they didn't understand) even when he tries to force the words out, they don’t come. He’d never learned the proper way to place his lips and tongue and teeth— Gilliam tried to teach him, even managed to coax the occasional answer out of Grey, but he’d resigned himself not very long after.

‘Your eyes say enough,’ Gilliam would say, hand warm and rough on his cheek.

He doesn’t smile much anymore. When you won’t talk and you don’t have a family to talk for you and all you have is a lean, strong body, there’s only one place you can really belong and it’s not at some proper job. Even factory workers and miners speak to each other.

So Grey picks one of the few places in New York City where talk is cheaper than the dirt under his feet. Chinatown’s underground arenas are cramped, humid and loud. The first time he’d gone, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Tower of Babel story Gilliam used to tell him, at how wrong it turned out to be.

He learns not long after, from a boy called Edgar who’s wildly out of place with his properly accented English, that when in Chinatown, you’ve got people speaking pretty much everything but. Chinese men shout at each other in one dialect, the Koreans have their own. Even the smooth patois of the city’s Harlemites is common in the pits, as well as the ring. But as long as you have either money or fists, you’re welcomed as warmly as anyone else.

The first challenger who nearly kills Grey is an Oriental (Chinese, he learns later) boy not much older than him. He’s tall and lean and hungry, just done with two other rounds. Grey’s fresh so he thinks it should be easy— no other opponent has put up much of a fight. But then they clash and he barely gets three hits in before he’s grappled to the floor of the arena, the other boy’s arm an iron bar over his throat. He blacks out thinking that it won’t be long before he gets to see Gilliam again.

He comes to a little later in a back room where a bunch of other fellas are all laid out on mats, still recovering. Grey never expected to win every fight, but he’s glad to have survived the one he lost-- he knows not everyone does. He’s trudging home when he bumps into the boy from last night. They stop long enough for him to catch a glimpse of his face and Grey does a double-take when he doesn’t see the shiner and split lip he definitely remembers putting on him.

“Oh,” the boy says, flashing him a sheepish grin, “I’m not Cheung. But I watched your fight, you’re pretty good. Not a lot of people manage to land anything on my brother.”

Grey holds up two fingers, cants his head to the side in a question. Twins?

“Triplets.”

* * *

Cheung and Jin and Hu treat Chinatown like their own private playground, leaping across roofs and ducking into alleys with the same ease they'd move between rooms of their own home. Not that their home _has_ more than one room; young men have to make do. 

They like Grey well enough. They take him out to eat, let him stay overnight with them when it's too late to head back uptown, call him 'Fly-Boy' for his ever-present bomber jacket. 

Grey gets used to waking up squished under a triplet, or with an arm or leg thrown over his chest, or with one of the brothers wrapped around him like an octopus. They teach him phrases in Cantonese (just so he'd know what some of the spectators are saying), sometimes they try to speak to him in badly-accented Italian. It mostly just makes Grey laugh.

Sometimes they steal clothes off laundry lines and tease the two neighborhood girls before returning their skirts and dresses in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes they'll sneak into the richer areas of the city and pick flowers from balcony planters. _There aren't many ladies in Chinatown,_ they'd say, _all the ones we know snuck in through California before they came out here. Not like the fellas, there's plenty of us._

_Must be lonely to be a girl out here, huh?_

Liu recruits them from the ring six months after Grey's first encounter with Cheung. They've been fighting for about a year by then, racking up win streaks longer than any record previously set. Instead of fighting for scraps, they run security for Liu's establishments, escort the adventurous white women looking to score a hit to and from their cars, or wherever they happen to be staying. Cheung spends most of his days loitering around the front door, trying to look casual. Jin and Hu hang out in the back, perched on stoop rails and piles of trash lumber.

Grey still sees them in the neighborhood, still stays with them some nights, usually clambering in through their ground-story window and out before first light. Hu sometimes leaves out food for him like he's some sort of stray cat. Jin left a ball of yarn for him one time, a piece of paper with his name written on it pinned to the string, which was how he figured out how they saw him-- not that he minds. Cats, stray or not, all have claws.

"Moving," Cheung informs him, months later as he hands over a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it. He's wearing a new suit, tailored to fit, but he's abandoned the jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, his tie (a deep, rich red one) slung undone around his neck. "We're transporting hooch for that man from Europe. New place is close to here, but harder to get into."

* * *

Grey stays on at the arena, and he figures out an easy route into the triplets' roomy new tenement (climbing up the fire escape chute has proven reliable, though sometimes he'll be swept out when another kid wants to take the ride down). He's comfortable, settled in, winning his fights and collecting a few clams every night for his trouble. He doesn't ask for much, but the gossip chain doesn't escape him either. How the place earns more money for a man called Wilford than he spends maintaining it, how this Wilford takes all that cash and funnels it into his upscale joint, serving rich whites on the blood and backs of everyone else, getting even richer even while the fighters lose teeth and gain broken bones.

He doesn't think too much on it, though-- Grey's doing pretty well for himself. Tanya, a ringside medic, is his favorite of the regular faces. 

"Don't understand none of these cats," she'll say cheerfully as she bandages Grey up, "or you, for that matter. But see, I like you. I like a fella that doesn't open his mouth just to put his damn foot in it."

Grey opens his mouth, curiously turning his ankle, as if angling his foot for an easier insertion.

Smacking him across the back of his head, Tanya only manages to draw a silent laugh from Grey, his mouth open wide, head tossed back, shoulders shaking. "Don't you sass me," she scolds, but in the voice she uses on Timmy so he doesn't take it personally.

Other people: Curtis, a police officer. Minsoo, a gambler Hu says visits Liu's opium dens on the regular. His daughter, Yona, who seems to predict the outcomes of fights with such precision that Minsoo apparently doesn't even need a day job. She sips cough syrup out of little glass bottles sometimes, but when she gets ahead of herself Minsoo takes it away from her. Yona always smiles at him when he steps into the ring. She always turns to her father and mouths, Grey. Grey will win. Grey always wins.

"Nam-whatever Yona, is it?" Edgar will sneer. Grey mostly just ignores him. After Gilliam died, he'd had no one in the city-- Edgar's got Curtis to look after him, Grey had to scrape together his own family. Being Sicilian in New York City isn't the worst thing in the world to happen to a man (better dark and Italian than Oriental or Black) but Grey's not in Chinatown because he has better options. 

Curtis asks him three years into Prohibition: "How do you feel about helping me take over Wilford's operation? Gilliam told me you'd want to help, before he passed."

Successor? he scrawls on the table.

"No, we're taking the Snowpiercer and killing him. Every promise he made to us here, he's broken."

Tanya's on board. So's Minsoo. Edgar would jump off a building if Curtis asked him to. 

"We're getting help," Curtis tells him, "guy called Stacker Pentecost. He's the biggest transporter in town. Says Wilford stiffed him on a huge payment-- does it all the time, see. No one fights back because he's got more money than anyone else, he can ruin anyone he wants to."

Grey nods. He knows that name, though he doesn't say so. 

When Curtis has his crew gathered and they step into Pentecost's office, Grey comes face-to-face with the Weis. Jin and Hu flash him delighted grins. Cheung nods briefly at him. Pentecost gives them a curious look, but the triplets fall back into line, schooling their expressions while he begins negotiations with Curtis.

Hercules Hansen, a local cop, enters with his son in tow.

* * *

"Mako," Jin says, once the triplets have managed to isolate Grey and Yona and drag them to their lounge-- a recreational area off of Stacker's office where they spend most of their downtime. "This is Fly-boy."

Grey shoots them an exasperated look, but he takes a piece of charcoal out of his pocket, casting around for a scrap of paper to write on. When he gives up, he shrugs out of one sleeve of his jacket and scrawls on his arm, _my name is grey_. He ducks his head in greeting, as he's seen Japanese fighters do before, and Mako gives him a smile in return.

"I'm Yona," Yona says cheerfully, settling in cheerfully next to Mako. She and Mako are both seventeen; Grey almost nineteen, the triplets twenty-three. 'We're teen-agers at heart,' Hu would joke about himself and Jin, 'Cheung is a sixty-year-old grandmother in his.'

Chuck steps in not long after, shoulders drawn up, face sullen. Mako's expression sours immediately, until Cheung elbows her on the arm. "Introductions again," he says lightly, prompting the rest of the circle to repeat the process. "Now that Chuck's been sent to the kids' table..."

"The Russians get to stay in there," Chuck gripes, "it's not fair."

"Life's not fair," Hu quips, "and it's boring in there anyway."

"They'll ask us to give feedback on the plan when they're done," Cheung says flippantly, though his eyes keep flickering to the door between rooms, "I'd rather be in here than in there listening to them argue."

Yona flashes him a mischievous grin (Mako's chest clenches in pity for her sensei when she realizes that the triplets may have found an even more cooperative partner in crime than herself), then says, "Because we're such good company, right?"

Jin's the one who answers, his entire face brightening: "Yeah!"

"I didn't think you guys would have dirty cop on payroll," Yona pipes up again, a hint of an accent behind her words but she's bright-eyed, listening to the conversation through the door. "Very convenient."

"That's my old man you're calling a dirty cop," Chuck snarls, surging to his feet. "You know murder's gone down by half since Pentecost took over around here? My dad's the only one who sees it."

"It's true," Hu adds, casually shifting his seat from the armrest of the couch to the table between Chuck and Yona and leveling a narrow-eyed stare at Chuck, "ever since the boss got a bunch of us working together on this block, whites've been too scared to come in here to lynch people. Sergeant Hansen's a good cop."

Jin cuts in, idly picking dirt from underneath his nails, "Still on Pentecost's payroll, though."

"Better than Wilford's," Mako counters decisively. 

Grey nods. So does Yona. On the scale of dirty cops, Sgt. Hansen's about the best anyone can ask for. Bit clueless when it comes to the neighborhood, but at least he knows when to stay out. 

"Hey," Cheung says after an agreeable silence, "wasn't there another one of you? Short, loud."

"Edgar?" Yona laughs, "Curtis told him to stand guard outside because he didn't want him barging into the room and he would have picked a fight in here."

Grey nods emphatically. _No kidding._

* * *

"Mako," Stacker says, once they've all assembled, "you will proceed with Curtis, Cheung, Edgar and Sasha in the vanguard." After Mako nods, he turns his attention to Jin and Hu. "You two will drive."

Before they have a chance to protest, Stacker pins them with a hard look. "No one knows these streets better, and no one can handle a vehicle better than you two. You would be an asset on the break-in team, but you are irreplaceable as drivers. Do you understand?"

The younger triplets fall back, both of them looking chagrined but placated. "Yes sir," they say in unison. 

"Grey, Chuck, and Aleksis-- you will surround the premises, make sure no one leaves. I will be traveling with Jin, Sergeant Hansen will be accompanying Hu, and the four of us will keep law enforcement... distracted." 

Tanya makes a displeased sound, drawing Stacker's attention to her. "And what about me, Mister Pentecost?"

"We need you on standby. You're the only one with any medical experience, Tanya."

"You know I--"

Jin steps in front of Stacker, a lopsided grin on his face. "You should ride with me, Ms. Tanya. If anyone gets hurt, the two of us will move in. You can teach me first-aid, too, you remember how many injuries my brothers used to rack up."

Everyone in Atlantica company knows how hard Jin is to resist-- Tanya hasn't seen his face in years (they rarely talked before), and he'd honed his skills since then anyway. So when Jin comes up to her looking like an excited puppy, genuinely excited at the possibility of working alongside her-- "Alright," she sighs, allowing him to cajole her into a conversation about the pros and cons of surgery to remove a bullet versus letting it stay in the body. 

"Yona," Stacker says, addressing the girl, leaning down so they're face to face. "Your father tells me your sense of hearing is excellent."

"Yeah," Yona answers, "I can hear e~verything. Like your neighbors upstairs, they're really making a mess."

Grey looks at her, eyebrow cocked, but she's focused on Pentecost, the warm rumble in his voice, the authority in his bearing and expression. 

Chuck shifts, impatient. He reminds Grey of Edgar-- loud, fidgety redheads. It surprised him at first, how Edgar had no problem drawing attention to himself, even in Chinatown. Everyone else had to learn to keep their heads down.

Smiling warmly, Stacker continues, "Would you be able to judge the movements of people inside the building from the apartment next to it?"

"Pretty simple."

"Do you mind if we test that later today?"

Minsoo's expression is approving, if irritated-- Stacker's rational doubts aside, it's good practice to put central tenets of a plan to the test before it commences, even when the doubt is on his daughter. Yona just nods cheerfully, shaking the hand Stacker extends with enthusiasm. "No problem, Mr. Pentecost."

"Good. Thank you."

Hu pipes up last, once it seems as if Stacker's finished. "And you wanted to speak with us again, boss?"

"We have a shipment coming in tonight." Stacker strides toward the door, gesturing for Jin and Hu to follow him, "Tendo will be at the Fulton Street docks at midnight. I won't be able to accompany you this time-- do you have a problem with that?"

"We can handle it," Jin answers easily. "Got the crates all set up."

"You need to speak to Cheung, boss?"

"I will. The payment for Mr. Choi is in my office, black briefcase under the desk."

"This plan is great," Hu comments as they turn to leave, "like out of an old book."

* * *

"This should be simple," Curtis says, rounding up his team, a roll of blueprints under his arm. "I'll brief everyone now-- we move tomorrow on the signal. Cheung, was it?"

Cheung nods, politely attentive but still wary. 

"I'll need a rundown of Pentecost's team's capabilities. Would that be alright?"

"You would be better off asking Mako," he answers immediately, nudging Mako forward. "She knows better than I do; my brothers and I mainly haul cargo and drive."

Curtis gives her a brief, skeptical look-- Mako looks young, still in dark gray knickers and high socks, her shoes polished like a schoolgirl's. But he nods, motioning her forward.

Mako falls into step next to Curtis as their team moves to a side room, splitting off to coordinate their movements. The triplets' job description involves quite a bit more than 'driving and hauling cargo', but for the moment the only thing Curtis has to know is their level of ability-- not necessarily what they've done with it. "Sasha and Cheung are both experienced with hand-to-hand combat," she says, "and I am competent as well, but my focus is logistics."

"Good," Curtis says as he sweeps cups and papers off a table to spread the blueprint out on it, "that'll come in handy. No wonder Pentecost wanted you three with me. It'll be dangerous, so I'm glad you can handle yourselves."

"Mako will stay with me," Cheung interrupts before Curtis can continue. "When we reach the fourth floor of his complex, we split up. You and Sasha and that one," he says, gesturing vaguely at a sputtering Edgar, "will keep moving forward. I will meet you just before Wilford's office, if we don't reach it first."

"Wait just a damn fuckin' sec--"

"Edgar," Curtis snaps, putting one hand on the younger man's shoulder and pulling him back before Sasha could advance, "fall back. I trust them to know what they're doing."

Sasha speaks up for the first time after their initial meeting, one hand on Cheung's shoulder. "All according to Marshal's plan, yes?"

"Mmh."

She flashes him a sharp smile. "Then I will make sure these useless boys make it to office."

* * *

Atlantica's company truck, an old Ford Model T, trundles down Fulton Street at exactly 11:55PM. Hu yawns in the passenger seat while Jin pulls up to the dock, then carefully turns the vehicle around and backs it down the pier. About halfway down, Hu hops out of the seat and trots ahead, waving Jin closer until he motions for him to stop. Then Jin slides out, joining Hu on the end of the jetty, both of them sitting with their feet dangling over the edge. They track a faint light out on the water, moving closer at a good clip.

"Hey brothers," Tendo crows when Hu hops onto his skiff and begins to unload crates of whiskey and rum in the dim light of his boat lantern, passing them up to Jin on the pier. "Nice night, huh? Lots of cloud cover." 

"No patrols," Hu adds cheerfully while Tendo ties his rig to the dock, "wind's not bad, and if you throw out some crab cages and pick them up on your way back, you'll have a nice snack once you're back on board."

"You tell me this every time," Tendo retorts, hauling up another wooden box and passing it to Hu, "and every time I say I'll do it next time."

Jin snaps, "And you never do."

"Well this time I did." The next box Tendo plops into Hu's arms drips water down the front of his shirt and a claw reaches out from between two slats to pinch him on the arm. Hu laughs, passing it up to his brother (who lays the box carefully out of the way of the crates of liquor) before they finish emptying Tendo's boat. "I've got a couple more traps still in the water," he says excitedly, "the cook on board's gonna do them up with some garlic and ginger."

"You can fry them too," Jin tells him, picking up a crab by the leg and shining a flashlight on it, "bunch of these are soft-shell still."

"Or put them in a tub of rice wine and ice, dip them in black vinegar and eat them raw..."

"Make them into soup..."

"Can do it with shrimp, too." Hu sighs, dropping into a crouch, carefully shifting his weight so the boat doesn't overturn. "I'm hungry."

"You boys think about food a lot, huh?"

Jin laughs, extending a hand to his brother and hauling him up onto the dock so they can begin loading the shipment into the truck. He passes over the briefcase as well, kneeling down and popping the buckles open so Tendo can look inside and confirm its contents. "You have no idea."

"Where's the boss, anyway?"

"Still in the office. We'll catch you up next time."

Tendo tips an imaginary hat, winking at the brothers as they help him untie his skiff, then drop the ropes into the bottom of his boat. "Deal's done," he says, more to himself than Jin and Hu, but he addresses them next. "So I've gotta scram."

Jin doesn't wait for Tendo to start up the motor before he turns away, flipping on the light hanging inside the truck's cargo hold and quickly loading the goods. Hu calls over his shoulder, "Happy sailing, Tendo!"

They pile back on once all their loot (and crabs) are accounted for, Hu in the back with the liquor and Jin in the driver's seat.

* * *

The office lights are off when they pull up to Atlantica HQ and into the garage, but Pentecost's car is still parked. Jin tries the door; it's locked, so they shrug and move on. Hu locks the garage door behind them as they start home, Jin carrying their seafood haul as they walk the three blocks to their building on Mott, climbing seven floors to their tenement at the end of the hall. It's larger than their old place, clean and spare, but comfortable and homey. 

「Hey!」 Jin calls, kicking off his shoes by the door, putting down his cargo and immediately peeling off his socks, lobbing the sweaty pair into the laundry bin in the corner while Hu does the same. 「We're home! Bro?」

"In here," Cheung calls out, head suddenly visible through the glass partition between the main living area and their kitchen. 

Hu pokes at a polished pair of two-tone shoes on the mat in the entrance, then switches easily to English. "Hey boss!"

"It's late," Jin says as he wanders into the kitchen, setting the entire crate of blue crabs into the basin of their sink and rinsing them off, one by one, tossing each cleaned crab into a pot as he finishes. "Everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Pentecost answers, brandishing a pen over the sheets of documents he and Cheung are poring over. "We were just finishing up."

"Are those crabs?" Cheung asks, already halfway to his feet. 「Do you want me to--」

「We'll cook!」 Hu interrupts, shoving his brother back down into his seat. 「You sit and conduct your business.」

Jin fills the bottom of the pot with a few inches of water and sets it on a burner, then begins pulling out plates. He counts out three, then grabs a fourth and glances over his shoulder at Pentecost. "Did you eat dinner yet, boss?" Unsuccessfully fighting back a snicker, he adds, "Tendo gave us crabs."

"I'm fine," he demurs, pointedly ignoring both Hu and Cheung's undignified snorts, "thank you."

「That means he didn't eat dinner,」 Cheung says matter-of-factly, but when he switches back to English, he asks Stacker, "Where's Mako? Would she want some?"

"She's staying overnight at the university. Studying with a classmate."

"Ooh," Jin says, suddenly curious as he covers the pot and grabs another one for the remaining half of their crabs, "anyone we know?"

"Raleigh."

"Yancy's brother."

"Yes."

Cheung's flipping through the stack of paper on the table again, casually tuning out the conversation while Hu cleans the last dozen or so crabs. The younger Weis keep up their lively conversation while they bustle around. Hu asks, "Do you trust him, boss?" 

"Not as far as I can throw him." Technically, he's finished with business at the Weis', but Stacker's watching Jin and Hu thoughtfully, eyes tracking their movements through the kitchen. "But I trust Mako, and I trust that if she needs my help, or the assistance of another adult, she will call."

Laughing, Jin covers the second pot and fiddles with the burner. "This is killing you, isn't it, boss?"

"You have no idea."

"These'll be done soon," Hu pipes up, reaching into a cabinet for a small jar of vinegar. "Stay and have some. Found this in Little Italy, it'll go great."

Pentecost's moustache twitches, but he answers with a straight face, knowing exactly the comment his reply would elicit. "If it's not too much trouble," he says, watching Cheung bury his face in his hands out of the corner of his eye, shoulders shaking, "I'll take some back for Mako as well. They should keep until tomorrow."

"No problem," Jin says easily, "we'll give you crabs." 

Cheung's voice is muffled against his palm: "Stop."

* * *

The Francos answer the garage door when Jin knocks, Tanya waiting a block away for him to finish the drop-off before he can drive back around to pick her up. Pentecost gets out as well, a clipboard under his arm and keys in hand. He opens the cargo hold's door to reveal the neatly-stacked columns of crates, while Jin hops up and begins pulling them down and pushing them to the edge of the truck bed. He takes a crowbar once the first box is moved to the floor, pries up the cover of one crate to reveal the bottles, arranged neatly and cushioned with straw.

"Total this shipment is thirty thousand," Pentecost says while the elder Franco bends over the crate, lifting bottles out while he counts the total per box. Stacker hands the clipboard over to the younger Franco to sign-- as usual, he reads the whole thing, paper held close to his face as he meticulously processes the words.

Wilford is painstakingly careful, always operating with the risk of being stiffed in mind-- and they use that to their advantage. Jin retreats to the back of the cargo bay under the pretense of rearranging a particularly tricky configuration, but opens a side door instead, first watching Sasha, then Curtis, Edgar, Mako and finally Cheung slink around the vehicle, out of anyone's line of sight but carefully watching the door Younger Franco had left open.

He knocks the cover off a crate, swearing as it hits the floor, along with a bottle of rum. Conspicuously groping for the light, he flips it on, drawing the attention of both Wilford's men. 

"Broke the sample bottle," he says, "but your total doesn't change!"

The Francos exchange a look, and as one haul themselves up onto the truck bed. At Pentecost's signal, Mako darts forward and through the door, the rest of her team disappearing after her while Jin talks up the silent behemoths crowded into the truck with him, keeping their eyes on his wide gestures, occasionally reaching toward his pocket just to keep them wary. 

"Alright," he concedes after a few minutes, discreetly meeting eyes with Stacker, "you can take the price of the bottle off, but it was open anyway. We'll remember this, you know."

* * *

"Not a lot of people down this hall," Mako whispers, "Wilford is in the inner office of the fifth floor." Taking a small, round mirror out of her pocket and using it to look around the corner, Mako gives them an all-clear sign, then dashes round to the next turn. 

"Francos usually call a couple people down to help them unload and transport the goods to storage," Cheung mutters, compulsively loosening his tie, "it takes them about ten minutes to finish counting, then we have another ten to break in and take him out." 

"Got it," Curtis says, nodding, "where do we split up?"

"Fourth floor is the most heavily guarded," Cheung answers, "we should be able to clear it pretty easy though. Fifth floor is mostly empty. Wilford likes his privacy."

The displeased silence from Mako's corner is conspicuous, but she bumps Cheung lightly on the shoulder, forcing both men into silence. She holds up two fingers, then three and five. Two guards, thirty-five feet away. 

Sasha nods, then smiles, teeth a thin line behind her bright red lips. Mako watches for a few more seconds, then pulls her mirror back, listening intently to their footsteps and counting down the distance as they approach.

Just as they reach the corner, Cheung slams his elbow into the first one's throat, cutting off a shout, and then grabs him by the back of his head, dropping him face-down onto the tile. Sasha tackles the other one to the ground from behind, one hand over his mouth, the other arm around his neck until he stops struggling. Cheung scuffs away a few drops of blood where his guard's forehead made contact with the ground, and they drag the bodies after them to the nearest closet before shoving them inside.

When they reach the staircase, Cheung ducks inside first, Curtis watching their backs as he scales one story and then comes back down. "All clear," he reports, checking his watch. "Second floor next."

Edgar makes an exasperated sound, then points up. "Look, man," he snarls, jabbing a finger into Cheung's chest, "if we're here to fuckin' kill Wilford, why aren't we just rushing up to the fifth goddamn floor and blowin' his bloody brains out?"

"We are also trying to leave this place alive," Sasha says, her voice low and dangerous. But really, she's looking out for the kid-- Cheung's watching Edgar's hand like he's trying to decide which finger to break first. "Stairs to fifth floor are across building, not through here."

"The fewer people we need to deal with on the way out," Mako adds evenly, "the better our chances."

"And why didn't anybody feel the need to tell me this until just now?"

"Because you wouldn't've listened anyway," Curtis laughs, rubbing the back of Edgar's head and then propelling him up the stairs. "C'mon. Second floor."

* * *

Hu turns into a dank alley, to an entrance covered in grit, the door rusty and old. He looks over his shoulder to Aleksis, Grey, Minsoo and Yona, the four of them squished in the back seat, then meets eyes with Herc. "This is it. We'll meet everyone again back here."

"You have to get them to the fourth-floor window," Herc emphasizes to Grey and Aleksis, "that's the closest Miss Yona can give us a good picture of what's going on inside." 

The building is Wilford's main base of operations, a nondescript office with a basement joint carved into the granite foundation of the city. Herc's been inside to scope it out, at Stacker's request-- the place is lavish, almost tacky with its cushy seats, carved molding and overpriced (even for Prohibition) drinks. They're not looking to go down, however.

The two younger men nod, Aleksis stepping out of the car first, entire vehicle suddenly far more roomy and light than before. Grey hops after him, adjusting his jacket over his shoulders before extending a hand to Yona, who happily takes it as she steps down. Grey leads the way inside, taking the steps two at a time while Herc checks that his gun is loaded, sufficient bullets in his pockets, before he claps Hu on the shoulder. "You ready, mate?"

"Are you really going to shoot at your coworkers?" Hu asks, heel tapping against the car floor. "You're not afraid they'll recognize you?"

"I'm gonna shoot near em," Herc answers. "Try not to drive in a straight line, that helps their aim too much."

"Please Sergeant," Hu murmurs while the starts the ignition, nerves calming considerably now that they're in his element, his thumb tracing a pattern across the steering wheel while the engine turns over. The engine he and his brothers have been tinkering with for the last few months. "Don't insult me."

* * *

Fighting down the urge to stall, Jin hovers behind Stacker while the Francos tally up the last of the bottles and begin returning them to the crates. More time for his brothers means raising suspicion with Wilford's men, and Cheung had specifically told him to get the boss out of the way as soon as possible. What's the point of taking down Snowpiercer if the man who deserves to run it is dead, after all?

Elder Franco signs the contract, and Younger picks up a briefcase, handing it over directly to Pentecost. Stacker pops it open, does some quick multiplication, and then nods, piling back into the passenger seat. Younger Franco lifts the garage door while Elder heads inside for help bringing the crates into Snowpiercer's storage.

Just as the gate fully opens, big Franco appears in the doorway, gun drawn.

"Change of plans," Stacker says as Jin smoothly shifts the truck into reverse and slams on the gas, turning the wheel just enough so the cargo bed swings out and slams Younger Franco against the wall. Not violently enough to cut him in half (though that had been Jin's intention), but he doesn't stay to finish the job, popping the gear shift to drive and pulling out of the garage while Elder Franco runs to check on his counterpart.

"He probably noticed the guards missing on the first floor," Jin sighs, taking the truck down the block and around the corner. Stacker switches places with Tanya and ducks into the grocery store past the alley they'd pulled up to, across the street from both Snowpiercer and the apartment complex next door. 

Tanya shouts after him, "Happy hunting, boss!"

Up on the roof, Pentecost claps Chuck on the shoulder and settles behind the blind he'd set up, extracting his old rifle from a duffel bag and nestling it against his shoulder. The younger man takes a shotgun, sitting with his back against the wall, eyes on the stairwell door. 

Stacker sights through his scope, trying to catch a glimpse through the fifth-floor window, but the glass is tinted. The fourth floor, however, is free game, as well as the third. 

He waits for the door to the stairwell to burst open, Curtis surging ahead of Edgar, both of them with weapons drawn, Cheung with Mako sticking close to his back. Sasha takes the fork down a separate corridor the moment she's out of the stairwell, smashing someone's face into a corner wall. 

A few of Wilford's men surrender immediately, their hands up as Curtis approaches. The security are less amenable to the idea of going quietly-- Stacker takes aim, barrel trained just ahead of a guard with a Thompson turning the corner. When Pentecost blows half of his head open, Cheung glances at the tiny hole in the glass panel, seems to look straight at where Stacker's hunkered down. Then he raises one hand, turns and presses ahead.

Stacker reloads.

* * *

"Group of officers around the corner," Jin says as he pulls up next to Hu's car, along the passenger side. He watches Herc pull on a wide-brimmed felt hat, tug it down over his eyes and lean out the window. "They're Wilford's, all the fuzz in this neighborhood have a hand in the pot."

"Then," Herc answers, "it'll be my pleasure to be firin' on them." 

Tanya claps Jin on the shoulder, then rubs the back of his stubbly head. "Me and Jin-- it is Jin, right?-- are gonna head back. We get to pick up the kids and keep an eye on the exit."

「Hu! Keep your head down!」

「Take your own advice!」

Hu takes Atlantica's Ford around the corner, the vehicle capable of moving faster than most cars on the market, but he keeps their pace moderate-- too fast, and the police know they won't be able to catch up. When Herc leans out the window, face carefully hidden, and opens fire into the side of the black van, Hu steps on the gas and swerves around the corner. He pauses at the end of the block, eyes on the rearview mirrors, fingers drumming on the dashboard. 

"Two on foot," Herc says, "rest are probably trying to radio the station. They'll try to cut us off."

Waiting until the first officer reaches for the gun at his hip, Hu slams his foot down on the gas as soon as the officer tries to take aim, jerking the wheel left so the first shot grazes a bumper but ricochets off. Swinging around the turn at the end of the block, Hu throws his weight right, pushing Herc against the passenger door to keep the car from turning over.

When he finally settles back into his seat, Herc adjusts the hat on his head, practically clutching it to his crown. "Christ!" he gasps, "Where'd you learn to drive like this?!"

"How do you think we got hired?" asks Hu matter-of-factly, licking his lips as he approaches one of the city's more crowded streets. The cars on it still move at a clipped pace, vehicles clustered together. "Let's see how this old thing measures up against New York's finest pigs."

Herc doesn't have time to be offended-- Hu switches into the oncoming lane to bypass a Lincoln, swerves back to avoid an approaching milk truck, cuts over a worn-down old curb on an unoccupied corner, then into a narrow alley that was clearly not designed to accommodate autos. He takes the car down another street once they're out, one a few other officers are known to loiter on. 

"Get ready, Sarge."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

* * *

"Mako," Cheung says, voice clipped as they gather at the stairwell to the fifth floor, the door locked but not so complicated that Edgar can't pick it. He frog-marches her toward a door at the end of the hall, then backs inside. "Come on. Boss's orders."

"I can help," Mako tells him ineffectually as he physically steers her toward the window, even reaching for the gun tucked into the holster she'd liberated from a downed guard, "you know I can."

"Yeah, but Boss doesn't want you around while we blow Wilford's brains out." 

Minsoo waves emphatically from across the gap between buildings, then lays what looks like a metal fire escape ladder across the distance. Then another one to reinforce the first. "Hey!" he shouts, then says something in Korean, gesturing at his daughter.

Accustomed to communicating people who don't speak English, Cheung promptly calls across, "Yona! Where's Wilford? Is he still on the fifth floor?"

"He's not in there! The fifth floor is empty!" Minsoo grabs his daughter around the waist when she practically lurches out of the window, shouting across the gap, "It's a trap, you guys gotta get out!"

Cheung nudges Mako out the window, grabbing onto the ladders and holding them steady. Grey crosses after her from the other direction, slapping Cheung's raised hand as he crawls in. Once Grey's over, Cheung nudges the ladders back over and braces his hand against the window frame. "Tell them I'll warn the others," he says, then nods to the hulking silhouette behind Minsoo. Aleksis waves back, light glinting off his rings.

Grey hands Cheung a machete, hefting his own in his hands as they turn to leave. Neither of them particularly like guns.

The door opens before either of them reach for the knob, both men jumping backwards and to the side as the Francos enter. Without a word, Grey swings his knife at the closest one, blade glancing off a metal pipe. Younger Franco is limping, favoring his left leg, but still moving with unnatural speed. Cheung clocks Elder across the face with the handle of his machete, then darts backward as the bigger man advances, shaking off the blow like he might shake off a fly landing on his face. 

From the other building, Yona turns at the sound of the fight, then smacks Mako on the arm. She looks over her shoulder, then in one fluid motion, Mako draws the pistol holstered at her hip, takes aim and fires two shots into Younger Franco's shoulder as he bears down on Grey. His bulk-- and body armor-- prevents the bullets from ripping through his body, but the pain and shock last just long enough for Grey to dart forward and slash his weapon across the bigger man's throat, then thrust it into his gut.

Elder Franco turns when he hears a pained grunt and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Cheung takes the momentary lapse to drive the butt of his machete into the other man's temple, toss his weapon to Grey, grab Franco's collar, then slam his head into the wall hard enough to crack it. Then once again for good measure.

As soon as he's down, Grey waves to get Cheung's attention, pointing in Mako's direction, his eyes wide.

"Rifle team," Cheung says, pulling the bloody machete out of Franco's abdomen, then hauling Grey by his sleeve out the door.

* * *

"He your friend?" Tanya asks, pointing at a Japanese man in the side mirror when he steps cautiously out of the front entrance, his hands hovering nervously near his waist. Very conspicuous.

Jin leans over and identifies him on sight-- he's met Fuku before, but anyone who'd ingratiate himself to a man like Wilford isn't a friend of his. "No more than Wilford's personal chef is yours," he answers. "But try not to kill him. He'll be useful for us later."

"You know," Tanya says thoughtfully, "I used to know Jim's aunt! He was a good kid, I don't know what happened."

"If you see him," Jin answers wryly, flashing her a grin, "maybe you can talk some sense into him."

Tanya nods, then falls silent, her eyes still on Fuku, who's glancing up and down the street-- he can't see the truck from around the corner. "We're not supposed to let anyone leave the building," she observes idly, extracting a hunting knife from under her seat. "That's your job, isn't it?"

"I've gotta drive," Jin says.

"I have a son."

"I have reckless brothers."

"What'll little Timmy do without his mama? My baby boy will be so sad."

"Rock paper scissors?"

They look at each other at the same time, expressions breaking into wicked grins. Jin's always liked Tanya-- her sense of humor is close to his, as he's coming to realize, and people who are candid to him are few and far between outside of his brothers. Tanya snorts, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I want to say yes," Jin answers, "but only if you're thinking that we drive over there and see the man about a horse."

"That's not how you use that expression," Tanya comments, stifling a laugh as Jin shifts the truck into drive and takes the long way around the block. 

"It never made sense to me anyway."

Fuku nearly jumps out of his skin when Jin peels around the corner, tires screeching to a stop as he pins the man between the truck's cab and the brick wall of Snowpiercer's exterior, just enough to squeeze but careful to do no more damage than a bruise or a few cracked ribs. Tanya makes an impressed sound as she hops out of the seat, knife in hand. The guard eyes her warily, struggling slightly, as if to get his arm free.

Jin notices a split second too late-- Fuku's arm snaps up, pistol already in hand, and he fires off a wild shot before Jin slams the heel of his palm into his throat. Fuku doubles over, dropping his gun and Tanya falls back, swearing under her breath. Jin vaults over the hood of the truck, immediately reaching for her arm. "Are you alright?!"

"Grazed my arm," Tanya says, trying to shrug it off, but when Jin touches her shoulder, it's shaking-- from adrenaline, and probably pain as well. Fuku's still clutching at his neck, gagging raspily and trying to regain function of his windpipe.

"You're bleeding a lot," Jin observes, pulling her toward the cargo hold, "come on, I'll wrap it up for you."

There's a clean undershirt in the back of the truck ( _Sometimes things get a little messy,_ he explains, dodging the question entirely), which he immediately grabs, flipping on the light and ushering Tanya to sit. When Jin moves, he throws his weight around a little more than usual, drawing faint groans from the front of the truck. "Any way you want this done?"

"Didn't hit an artery," Tanya says, taking her hand away and watching blood ooze down her arm for a few seconds. "Tie it down tight, keep pressure on it."

Jin does as he's told, securing the stretched-out shirt tightly over the edges of Tanya's wound, then offering a hand as she moves to stand. "Will that hold?"

"You did an alright job," she tells him, winking, "I guess."

" _Now_ can I go see a man about a horse?"

"That's still not how you use it."

Fuku's breathing has evened out by the time Jin and Tanya are finished, but it speeds up again as they come back around. Jin hops onto the hood of the engine, jolting the entire truck with his weight. "You're gonna tell us what Wilford's planning?" he asks cheerfully, but Fuku turns his head away.

... only to come face to face with Tanya, who shoves her knife under his nose and snarls right into his face. "Listen up you damn son of a bitch," she begins, drawing an impressed whistle from Jin, "are you gonna answer our damn questions or am I gonna have to start shaving your nose off, one piece at a time?"

"If I knew," Fuku yelps, "I'd tell you! I swear!"

"Damn!" Jin says, "Another dead end."

"Well, now he's just _really_ useless to us." Tanya adds flippantly, moving to climb into the driver's seat, "We might as well make sure he can't talk. Ever again."

Jin's looking at Tanya like it's the first time he's ever seen her, a little surprised, a little scared, but mostly in awe. "Stone cold, Ms. Tanya."

"Get your skinny ass off the hood, boy."

"Mason!" Fuku whines, "The one you want is Mason! Skinny, wears fur, big glasses. If you want to know what Wilford is planning, Mason's the one who knows. Please just let me go."

Jin hops off the hood as Yona, Minsoo and Aleksis round the corner, and he motions them forward. "These fellas sell each other out at the drop of a hat," he laughs as Aleksis approaches with a length of rope.

* * *

Sasha has a deep cut on her side, her lipstick smudged and her hair in disarray, but she hauls Edgar up by the collar and shoves him toward the stairwell, Curtis favoring his left leg as he runs behind her. Grey grabs his arm, slings it over his shoulder and pulls him along, Cheung bringing up the rear. 

A shape emerges from around the corner, stepping in front of the door, pistol drawn. Cheung roars, " _Down!_ " and Grey drops Curtis's arm to hurl his machete ahead, a slug glancing off the wall by his head. Elder Franco easily dodges the weapon, expression livid, and Cheung ducks around the other three, pushing Franco's arm away as he squeezes the trigger again. 

It's like trying to bend iron; Cheung disengages, then closes in again, trying to grapple Franco to the ground for an easier hold, but Franco is twice his weight in bulk. "I'll catch up," Cheung snarls over his shoulder, prompting Edgar and Sasha to press forward, Curtis and Grey on her heels.

They dash down the last of the stairs and out of the complex. Hu and Herc pull up outside, having lost their tails after a few rounds through three different neighborhoods. Pentecost rushes across the street, strides long and easy, but he might as well be running. He addresses Sasha as he approaches. "What happened? Why didn't you go to the fifth floor?"

"Yona says it was trap," Sasha answers tersely, shoving Edgar into the car next to Chuck, who makes a displeased sound, "Wilford was not in his office."

"We'll take her word for it," Stacker says, trusting the tests they had done on the limits of her hearing. He knows how careful Wilford is; it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility for him to set up such a long-running, elaborate trap. Then he gestures to the other side of the building before climbing into the back. "The rest of you ride with Jin and Tanya, have her look over your wounds."

"Hey," Hu says, standing up in his seat and looking at the congregation, already reaching for the door handle, "where's Cheung?"

"He was behind us," Sasha says, looking back. "Should have finished with Franco."

Hu is halfway out of the car before Stacker grabs his shoulder from behind, pushing him back down into his seat. "He lost," Pentecost tells him, having watched the fight from the opposite building, "but he is alive. Right now, what we need to do is regroup. There are too many people inside who are now prepared for you or anyone who tries to go back. Do you understand me?"

The look Hu gives him would probably melt steel, if looks could do that kind of thing. Sasha manhandles Grey and Curtis toward the truck waiting in the alley while the youngest Wei seems to contemplate the merits of ignoring Pentecost altogether and storming inside to fetch his brother. "Boss," he says plaintively, not understanding at all, "it's Cheung. He's more loyal to you than anyone. If he's alive, we can't let him think we left him."

"Wilford knows exactly how valuable to this company your brother is," Stacker says, his voice low and final, "he won't hurt him. Just know that as of right now, it is my first priority to get him back, safe and whole. The best chance we have for that is if we leave immediately." 

"But--"

" _Drive._ "


	2. Chapter 2

"It's nothing personal," Wilford says, standing in the shadows outside of the circle of light over Cheung's head. He's not trying to look intimidating, and Cheung's more focused on the ropes around his wrists anyway, tight enough to start cutting off his circulation, but not if he angles his arms a certain way. Wilford can see the distraction in his face, the younger man's expression mostly irritated under the livid bruise around his eye, but also calculating.

"Sir," Claude says, "we can take care of him."

Wilford ignores her, pacing around the chair, occasionally leaning down to inspect the bindings and pull on them, interrupting whatever progress Cheung might have made. "Look at him," he says cheerfully, "so calm. Is it because he thinks we aren't going to kill him? Maybe he doesn't speak English?"

Cheung involuntarily freezes, shoulders drawing up, but he bites the inside of his cheek and keeps his glare directed at the floor. He's never known a white man to be able to read his body language, and Wilford doesn't disappoint, continuing to pace leisurely around. 

"What I really want to know," he says contemplatively, "is why didn't you bust onto the fifth floor? It would've been so easy. It was supposed to be easy."

"Mr. Wilford, I don't think that--"

"Come on Claude, they already know. I just need to find out how."

Cheung blinks up at him, eyes narrowed. He'd had his doubts about Yona; preternatural sense of hearing aside, she's still a kid hooked on cough syrup, loopy at the best of times, but she's one of the reasons he's still breathing, probably. That, and the fact that he's the only one of Pentecost's men Wilford has-- they would've flaunted it if someone else had been caught as well. Cheung can smell fish, and the ringing in his ears doesn't block out the sound of waves or gulls. Not that knowing where he is is going to help.

"I mean, word around is that I'm always up there," continues Wilford, "the windows are all blacked out, and the way it's rigged-- I almost wish you fellas went in."

Blocking out the sound of people who love the sound of their own voice is par for the course for Cheung. He squints instead at the table nearby, grimly weighing the chances of getting out of this situation with all his limbs. He'd narrowly escaped being shanked and having his head torn off by Elder Franco, but it'd been close, and only because Wilford had the presence of mind to keep a bargaining chip in his pocket.

"At any rate, Claude, you know how Pentecost runs his ship." Claude holds Wilford's jacket, waiting for him to slip it on over his shoulders as he prepares to leave and Elder Franco steps into the room. "We might as well get some use out of this one. You've got a good supply of tar, I'll wait on Pentecost's call." 

Franco's grudge is against Grey (whether or not he remembers Yona is something Cheung's pretty sure is left better untested), but his presence isn't exactly good news. He stands around while Claude moves mechanically toward the table, picking up a spoon and a syringe, breaking off a chunk of some powdery brown substance.

Cheung starts to struggle when the familiar, acrid scent drifts past him and Claude draws a hypodermic full of some sticky black liquid. Franco moves behind him, grabbing his arm and straightening it out, giving the woman easy access to the crook of his elbow.

His skin itches when she first injects him, a slow burn crawling up his arm, his neck, diffusing into a gentle warmth throughout his entire body. The dull ache from the shiner on his face fades, replaced by a surge of peace and calm exactly the way he's heard junkies describe it.

\-- _fuck_ , he thinks. _Heroin_.

* * *

More than anything, the two pacing triplets in Pentecost's office remind him of caged predators. It's not so far off the mark-- two days since the failed operation on Wilford, and he hasn't picked up the phone to begin negotiations. Straddling the line between desperate and uncaring, shamefaced and brazen, that's a delicate balance Stacker's rarely had to navigate. After all, his plans almost never fail so terrifically that he has to do damage control.

"Boss," Jin says, pausing in front of his desk. "It's been two days."

Hu keeps pacing, hard soles of his shoes thumping hollowly against the wooden floor of his office. "We trust you, sir. We don't trust you this much."

"Believe me," Stacker says, "if they've harmed your brother, we would have received news by now. A finger, or an ear."

Dark humor usually goes over much better with Jin and Hu, but the looks they give him are both reassured and nauseous. Stacker picks up the phone anyway-- it's been long enough. 

There's no guarantee that Cheung will be safe, Stacker only knows how a smart man like Wilford operates. Wealthy enough to live comfortably, not so secure in his position that he can afford to burn the bridge with his supplier entirely by killing one of his most loyal employees. Atlantica's well-established reputation, city-wide customer base, the speedy, prolific sailors operating between Central America and the Caribbean Islands exist because Stacker asked them to. They would dissolve in a second if Atlantica went down, and Stacker isn't known for letting bygones be bygones.

"Stacker," Wilford says, almost jovially from the other end of the line before Pentecost says a word, "I've been waiting for your call!"

"You must not get many calls."

"I've called three different fellas Stacker in the last two days. You kept me waiting."

Leveling a stare at Hu, right up until Jin grabs his arm and stops his pacing, Stacker drums his fingers against his desk and cuts right to the point. "I want my man back, Wilford."

"You and your guys tried to kill me," Wilford answers incredulously, "why in the world would I give your hitman back?"

"He's a driver," Stacker sighs. "I want him back because he's been loyal to me, and I reward loyalty. It's why I have the suppliers I do, the sailors I do, and why I can keep your joint operating smoothly."

"That's a compelling case," Wilford retorts, "but the fact remains that there was an attempt made on my life."

"And it failed," Pentecost says lightly, "and if you decide to insult me again by trying to weasel out of paying, you can be sure that next time, it will succeed. This isn't personal, you understand."

There's a contemplative silence from Wilford's end. Then, "We're even now, is what you're saying."

"Tomorrow." Stacker pointedly doesn't look in Jin and Hu's direction. "The Plaza, seven o'clock. We can discuss the terms of our exchange over dinner like civilized men."

"I'm bringing security."

"As am I. We continue to be even."

"We're going with you," Hu says the moment Stacker hangs up the phone. Jin nods. 

"No," he answers, already pulling himself together for the long fight, "you are not."

Stacker's known the triplets since they were practically still children, the age gap between Jin and Cheung probably only minutes, but big brother was the one who made sure the younger two didn't have to grow up too fast, the one who'd compromise, the one who'd held them together. All three are smart, loyal men-- but Jin and Hu are stubborn as brick walls. Luckily, they're brick walls who can be reasoned with.

"Why not?" Hu demands first.

Jin chimes in next, just barely holding himself back from slamming his fists onto Pentecost's table. "You said you're bringing security--"

"I'm bringing Mr. Everett," answers Stacker, watching the realization dawn on Hu's face. It was Curtis's idea in the first place, and he owes Pentecost a favor for not ratting him out to Wilford-- he's still the best chance they have of dislodging Wilford from Chinatown like a crusty barnacle off the bottom of an otherwise perfectly functional ship.

Still, Curtis hadn't shown himself to be a particularly skilled fighter-- solid strength but no technique, at best. Jin looks incredulous. "What can he do?"

"He can sit around and look white," Hu spits, grabbing Jin's wrist. "Between us and the boss, which of us three do you think Wilford would get arrested for shooting in public?"

"I'm sorry," Pentecost tells Jin, whose shoulders are trembling with rage, eyes bright, teeth clenched. "This is how the world works. If one of you wants to be at the Plaza, that's fine, but I'd also like to avoid revealing the fact that you three are triplets."

Jin and Hu exchange a look, much longer than their usual silent communication. Jin cocks his head to the side, curls his lip. Hu's jaw slides forward, a flash of teeth, brows knitting. When they finally turn back to Stacker, Hu steps back. "I'll go," says Jin.

* * *

"Oh," Wilford comments when he sees Jin and Curtis settling at the table behind Stacker, "he has a brother."

Franco eyes him, fingers conspicuously twitching for the gun very obviously holstered under his jacket, but dinner commences peacefully. Wilford orders steak, Stacker has a filet of some sort of fish. They eat at a leisurely pace, which is how business meetings usually progress anyway. Curtis occasionally looks over at Jin, palpable waves of impatience rolling off his shoulders, but his expression carefully blank, feet practically glued to the floor, hands pinned under his armpits. 

"So," Wilford says, finally pushing his plate away. "How much liquor do you still have in storage?"

"Twenty thousand dollars worth of uncut Canadian Whiskey," Stacker says, "fifty thousand in Caribbean rum, another thirty in tequila from Mexico. Fifty in Irish gin."

"A hundred fifty grand," Wilford says after a quick calculation, nodding. "You'll relinquish all of that to me." 

Jin almost has a heart attack in his seat-- Curtis would too, if he weren't perfectly aware of how much money passes between criminals on a regular basis. Or maybe it isn't the amount that'd shocked him, but the demand. It's ridiculous that anyone would ask for so much just for a single man, and Curtis has never seen anyone who'd willingly give up a _hundred fifty thousand dollars_ worth of liquor.

"And how would this exchange occur?"

"Your people bring it to my office. I'll give you the address to pick up your Oriental."

Jin bristles at the tone but Stacker waves him back. He doesn't doubt that Wilford is still holding a grudge, and completing one half of a trade before the other is a clear recipe for betrayal. "We make the exchange simultaneously on neutral ground," Stacker says, and then it's Curtis's turn to have a heart attack. He hadn't actually expected the deal to go through. "Our supply will move into your warehouse once I have confirmation that Cheung is unharmed."

"Oh, Stacker," Wilford answers, brows quirking. "I'm not sure you're in any position to negotiate."

A long silence. 

"I have another fifty thousand coming in to bring my total to two hundred thousand dollars worth of liquor that says I am," Pentecost answers smoothly, swallowing the insult of Wilford using his first name, "but if you're not in agreement, our conversation ends here. My employee is valuable, not irreplaceable."

Fifty thousand dollars to ensure a safe exchange; that would sound ridiculous to anyone in the industry, but it makes perfect sense to Curtis for the way Pentecost has always run his business. Money comes and goes, trustworthy people are hard to find under any circumstance. 

"We don't make the switch until I get the shipment in full."

"If Cheung is injured or killed between then and now, the deal is off and you will never do business in this town or any other town again."

"Done," Wilford says, extending his hand. Stacker takes it, but doesn't let go after they shake. Curtis and Jin stand, silently pulling on their jackets as they flank him.

"And how do I know he's alive now?"

"You can come see him, if you want. There are certain conditions."

Conditions like blindfolds, probably. "I can go," Curtis volunteers, "or Jin. Don't risk it."

Stacker meets eyes with Jin, but shakes his head. "We will be back here within two hours. If I am not, burn the Snowpiercer down."

"Sounds good to me," Wilford says, leading the way into the Plaza's garage.

* * *

Stacker isn't sure exactly which pier Wilford's brought him to, but they drive right into the warehouse before they remove his blindfold. It's padlocked from outside, an army cot set up against one wall. Franco turns on the light and Stacker can see the shape lying on it, back to the entrance. That's unusual for Cheung, who prefers to sit with his back to a corner and his eyes on every possible exit and window, but Wilford lets him approach, put a hand on his shoulder. 

The light is dim, but Stacker shifts slightly so some of it falls on Cheung's face when he turns him onto his back, both hands shackled together, rubbed raw under the metal cuffs, and chained to the wall. He looks otherwise unharmed, except for the black eye Stacker had seen him receive through his scope. 

"Cheung," he mutters, discreetly pressing two fingers to his neck and feeling a sluggish pulse beat under his fingers. 「Wake up.」

Even whispering, Stacker's voice is unmistakable. 「My brothers?」 Cheung slurs, blinking slowly awake. His pupils are blown wide open, movements slow, as if his limbs are being weighed down, and he doesn't move to sit up.

「They're fine. Are you alright?」

Cheung doesn't move, but his gaze flickers down and he turns his arm, showing Stacker the track marks on his skin. 「Get out of here, boss. 'S not safe.」

「We'll be back for you,」 Stacker mutters under his breath, voice hoarse around the sudden constriction in his throat. If he tries to make an issue of it, he can't guarantee that Franco won't gun him down on the spot, but there's something to be said for a contract breach within the first hour. 「And we'll make them all pay.」

He continues in English, reluctant to leave Cheung in Wilford's custody but knowing that it's too late to backtrack on their deal. "I'll deliver my entire inventory in three weeks. That's the soonest possible moment I can have that done."

"Great," Wilford says, brandishing the blindfold again. "Glad we got out of this without incident."

* * *

Jin briefs Hu in the time it takes for them to move from the garage to Stacker's office, the two of them conversing in rapid-fire Cantonese. The moment they're in the privacy of his office, door shut behind them, Stacker turns and regards them. "First off," he says before either of them can explode, "Jin, thank you for not interrupting me during the meeting."

"Boss," Jin answers plaintively, "you almost gave me a heart attack."

"What if that didn't work? What would you have done then?"

"I would have made concessions to Wilford's offer," Stacker answers easily, "but no one in this city would turn down two hundred thousand dollars in exchange for one man's life."

" _Two hundred grand_ in booze," Hu repeats, still disbelieving. 

"If I lied, Wilford would have found out sooner or later. Then he wouldn't need an excuse to kill your brother."

"Two hundred grand."

"Objectively," Stacker sighs, "Cheung's life holds more value to me. Money, I can make. The services you three have provided me have made many times the amount I'm offering to Wilford. I told the truth about the amount of liquor we have at our disposal, but I was lying about how much your brother means to Atlantica company."

Hu reaches out, somewhat hesitantly, and gratefully clasps Stacker's upper arm. There's something in his expression that says he'd rather throw his arms around Stacker's neck and kiss him on the mouth for negotiating a deal with almost all of Atlantica's remaining assets on the line, but he restrains himself. "I wasn't saying you shouldn't've, boss, we're just thankful you did."

Jin teases, "This is why we're not rolling in cash, sir, you're too nice."

"Besides," Stacker says, leveling a pointed look at them, "if I let him die, I'd have to find two new transporters after you both go rogue."

* * *

Aleksis has Fuku tied tight to a chair in the dim light of Atlantica's basement. He's somehow managed to make it look like a torture chamber, though they mostly use the space to store paperwork-- chains hung on the walls, pliers and nails and hammers lying all around. It's good work, if he says so himself. Sasha congratulates him on it before she heads upstairs, moving gingerly with the wound in her side. 

Tanya has her arms crossed over her chest, trying not to laugh while Stacker looks curiously at the back of Fuku's head, trying to decide how best to approach the man. "Look," he says tiredly, "I don't have any use for you."

"You could let me go," Fuku suggests, his entire body trembling, legs of his seat clacking against the floor. "I don't have any information you can use."

Stacker tells him, "We're not going after Mason, either."

Despairingly, "But she knows more than me!"

"Tell us about Claude," Aleksis probes. "Wilford's right hand, yes?"

"Claude won't talk," Fuku answers immediately. "Claude is like a machine, got a mind like a steel trap too, but she just does what Wilford tells her to." Jerking his head in Tanya's direction, Fuku struggles briefly against the bindings around his torso before giving up. "Claude said you'd help out during the attack," he says, "she knows you. Said you have a son. Timmy or something? Said we could use him."

Claude's been with Snowpiercer for longer than Tanya can remember, occasionally watching fights but mostly standing off to the side with a clipboard. Tanya's never brought Timmy to the ring, but her work as the ringside medic means everyone knows her, her name, her face. In the moment between hearing Timmy's name come out of Fuku's mouth and the moment where she flies across the room to strangle him for having the gall to say her son's name, Stacker puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Fuku, was it?" he says lightly, "Ms. Tanya is here to make sure that if our hand slips while we... interrogate you, you don't die. It may be best if you don't provoke her."

"How about I work for you?" Fuku tries again, "Or I tell you something you can use, you let me go?"

"I only hire people I can trust, and I can't let you go free." Stacker pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks at him again. "But if you give us something good, we'll make your stay with us comfortable, at least."

"Wilford set up a trap on the fifth floor office," he says victoriously, "but that's where he keeps the property title for Snowpiercer. You can use that, can't you? There's plenty of other stuff up there, but you can't take the door."

* * *

Tanya's moved back to her office-- a room in the building Stacker had decided to let her have permanently in exchange for staying on call as Atlantica's doctor-- when Jin and Hu knock on the door, making faces behind the frosted glass. She smiles, then waves. "Come in!"

"Hey Ms. Tanya," Jin says, looking around as he slinks inside, "how do you like the new digs?"

"Like em just fine," Tanya answers, motioning at a stocked cabinet, Sasha sitting on a cot with her shirt pulled up over the stitches on her side. "Good thing boss was in the market for a doctor, huh?"

"Good thing you were free," Hu answers.

"Fellas," she says, putting down a pen over a new file, "I'm so sorry about your brother. If it was my boy, I wouldn't know what I'd do."

"We know he's alive, Ms. Tanya, all we can do now is wait." Jin smiles, holding up a brown bag, held carefully level. "Meantime, we brought you lunch... and a Timmy!"

Timmy raises both arms when Hu lifts him up so the poof of his hair rings the crown of Jin's head. Then Hu raises him a little higher before he sets him down. The boy darts forward and throws himself onto the desk, grinning sunnily at Tanya as she pulls him into a one-armed hug. "You've been watching out for him?" Tanya asks, squeezing her son close. "And we barely know you. Thank you, both of you."

"We picked him up from the Chans' when we went by for food," Hu explains, "put in the order, brought him to the playground, he's a good kid. No trouble at all."

Tanya gives her son a suspicious look. "Really?" she asks, drawing a laugh from Sasha.

"He means Timmy didn't get into any more trouble than we've ever gotten into," Jin amends, putting one box of takeout onto her desk and taking the other one out for Sasha, "so we've been having a lot of fun. Right, Tim?"

"Yeah!"

"Ms. Tanya, are you done with Sasha?"

"Anything you say to her, you can say to me."

"Is true," Sasha confirms. "Tanya is part of team now."

"Timmy," Hu calls over, kneeling down and brandishing a piece of chocolate. "Tell Aleksis to come in here, then go play with Mako, okay? The big hairy Russian."

Timmy takes the bribe, gives him a conspiratorial nod and then dashes off, disappearing around the corner. Jin trots over to Sasha while she gingerly pulls her shirt back down, and Aleksis joins them inside the office, chuckling under his breath. "You are good with children," he rumbles, flashing half a piece of chocolate, then popping it into his mouth, "but not as good as I am."

"Boss needs you two to get in touch with some of your suppliers," Jin says to Sasha while Hu and Aleksis scuffle. "Your old suppliers."

"What does he need?"

"New rifle." Hu ticks the list off, punctuating each item with a elbow in Aleksis's ribs, "A few semi-automatics. No Thompsons. Too flashy. Enough ammo to bring down a couple small elephants."

"Boss is taking business very personally," Sasha observes. "When do we need weapons?"

"Three weeks," Jin answers, smoothly taking over for Hu, who's finally been released from a headlock and has wandered over to Sasha to started prodding her to show him her new scar and stitches, "he says that's all we need to know for now."

Looking around her, Tanya points at the Russians, then Jin and Hu. "And you guys just... trust Mr. Pentecost, just like that? 'Bust into that building for me,' 'Arm me a couple soldiers,' 'Kill all these fellas you never met before,' just 'cause he says so?"

"Yeah," Hu says simply. "He never gave us a reason not to."

* * *

"All clear," Yona whispers to Mako around the flashlight in her mouth, crawling forward on her elbows and knees. "Nobody in the room, but be careful for traps."

Mako nods as Yona moves past the fork in the vents to make room, then glances over her shoulder to where Grey is looking very cramped and uncomfortable in the space. He flashes her a thumbs-up, waits for Mako to push the grate open, then tumble into the room, staying low to the ground. Grey extracts himself after her, staying in a low crouch. They keep themselves down for a few minutes longer, scanning the room with the portable flashlights, weak beams of light revealing the dark corners of the room. The windows aren't just tinted; there are steel slabs of metal set up in front of them, not that there's much sunlight at two in the morning.

The first thing Grey does is disarm the shotgun rigged to a wire in front of the door, briefly imagining how Edgar's face would look if he'd managed to get that stairwell open any quicker. Then he checks Wilford's desk while Mako inspects the cabinets, pulling open drawers and thumbing through a series of files. She takes one old contract, Wilford's name signed neatly at the bottom, folds the paper and then tucks it into her pocket.

Grey raps twice on the desk to draw her attention, then holds up a certificate he'd pulled from the bottom drawer-- a deed. Yona, peering out from the vent, gives him a polite round of applause. 

"Okay," Mako says, rearranging the cabinet how she'd found it, hooking the wire back up to the shotgun in front of the door. "We have what we need."

Yona shuffles backwards, her face disappearing into the darkness, and she leads the way to the side of the building, into the fire escape chute they'd come in through. They drop in feet-first, Yona running almost face-first into the alley wall when the chute spits her out. Herc leans out of his patrol car, headlights off, but Yona follows the sound of the idling engine and climbs in. Grey and Yona pile in after her.

Chuck scowls at them, but Yona flashes him a thumbs-up and he huffs, sitting properly back in the passenger seat. His shoulders were too wide to fit into the vents, wasting a climb and also missing out on the mission Stacker had assigned them. 

When they arrive back at the office, the lights are still on. Stacker's in his office, Jin and Hu in the lounge attached to it. Jin's head lolls back against the wall, Hu's head in his lap, but they both jerk awake when the office door opens and Grey leads the way in. Mako and Yona flash them victorious grins as the kids parade into Pentecost's office. 

"Good work," Stacker says, looking closely at the deed Grey slaps down on his table, then the contract Mako slides across. "Mako, can you forge this signature?"

"I need a few days to practice."

"Let me know when you're ready."

"Chuck," Herc says, clapping his son on the shoulder. "You go ahead. I'll be home later."

"Mako, you too."

The kids troop out to meet Jin and Hu, who promptly split them into two groups. Then they trek outside, squabbling over which of them gets to be dropped off last. 

Herc grins, arms crossing proudly over his chest. "I take it this is insurance?"

"What reason would I have to paint the walls with Wilford's brains if we've already hashed out a deal?"

Herc approaches the desk to read the deed, checking that it's the real deal. "Well, you didn't need it," he says, "you know I can keep the heat off you."

"Better safe than sorry, my friend. Besides, new property never hurts."

* * *

Midnight on the pier, after Jin and Hu have made their third trip from Atlantica's warehouse to the wharf, after unloading all their inventory into another storage unit Stacker had designated for the drop, Pentecost locks the door in preparation for the next day. With Tendo's shipment and the exchange with Wilford and his men happening within the next eighteen hours, he's held off on briefing the younger Weis on his plans. They hadn't asked or poked around, so Stacker hands over two Colt .45s in the headlights of the truck.

"Tomorrow," he says, "when you pick up your brother, leave no one alive. Tanya will come with you, on the chance that Cheung needs medical assistance."

Pulling a holster over his shoulders, Jin hefts the gun in his hands before returning it to its case. "Doesn't seem like you, boss."

"Wilford violated the terms of our agreement. That's all you need to know."

Hu's slung the whole thing over his shoulders, deciding that he'll have plenty of time to get used to it, once they're back home instead of standing around on the docks. "Is Cheung--"

"Your brother is alive, and in possession of all his limbs. Just complete the pick-up at the pre-arranged time, and do as I ask."

Jin snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets. He and Hu have been sniffing blood in the air for weeks already, understanding of the need to tread carefully but straining at the leash, reined in only with the promise that when they're let off, they'd have no complaints about the end result. "Well," Hu laughs, "I don't have any problems with that, but we don't use these much. Probably end up shooting ourselves in the foot."

Jin and Hu hand the weapons back, grinning. "Be careful on your end, boss."

Stacker climbs back into the car with both brothers. The three of them ride (for once) in silence.

* * *

No one bothers blindfolding either the younger Weis or Tanya on the ride to the pier, a private one closer to Uptown than Chinatown. Claude drives... monotonously. It's the only way to describe it-- precise, smooth starts and stops, each turn taken at the exact same angle and speed as the last, the vehicle climbing gradually to 30mph and staying there until it has to slow, then slowing at the exact same rate every time. The blindfolds aren't even necessary; Hu falls asleep on Tanya's shoulder about five minutes into the trip, Jin stifling his laughter into his hands.

When they arrive, Franco unlocks the warehouse door and checks his watch. It'll be another half hour until he's allowed to let them leave with Cheung, and he'd taken off the chains that morning. 

Jin and Hu are at Cheung's side even before the lights are on, quickly stripping away the cot blanket and pulling up his shirt to check for injuries, feeling for his pulse. He doesn't wake up, but they don't say anything yet, mentally ticking down the seconds before the trucks holding Atlantica's liquor are due to arrive at the Plaza.

Tanya retreats outside, discreetly picking up a crowbar about five minutes before the designated time. Jin watches Franco out of the corner of his eye while they prepare to move Cheung, his eyes scanning the warehouse while they work. Minutes before three o'clock, Jin joins Tanya outside, Hu staying behind with Cheung. 

Franco's looking at his wristwatch long before time is up, as if counting down the seconds himself.

* * *

Wilford had said on the phone, _Your drivers will pick up our haul and our drivers will take your people to pick up yours. At exactly three o'clock, we'll make the switch. You and I at the plaza, your people at the wharf._

Both groups arrive twenty minutes before three, meeting in the lobby. The man Jin and Hu refer to as Egg-head (Stacker never asked for his name; he regrets it now, a bit) pat him and Curtis down. Stacker doesn't bother-- he checks his watch while Egg-head searches his pockets and Mason fidgets, throwing an occasional anxious look in Curtis's direction.

Sasha enters the lobby five minutes to three, stopping just short of the congregation. "Trucks have arrived," she reports, "all accounted for."

"Mason," Wilford commands easily, "go count it up. Get our drivers ready."

Stacker had hired drivers and rented four trucks, not wanting to hand over any more of Atlantica's assets than they absolutely have to, even temporarily. Sasha gives him an expectant look, but leaves through a back door when he dismisses her. Mason returns shortly, pushing her glasses up her face and announcing that the numbers add up; all the trucks are stocked full, Atlantica Company made good on their side of the bargain. So it is.

Wilford approaches the front desk, dials his warehouse. "We're good," he says. "Deal's done."

Stacker silently extends his hand.

"Well," Wilford continues cheerfully, shaking it, "good doing business with you, Stacker. Real painless. Let's do it again sometime."

* * *

Occasionally moving to a table still covered in used utensils but mostly looking occupied with Cheung, Hu holds Franco's attention. At three, Claude wanders back from the office after picking up a phone call, reports that everything is fine, then goes back outside. While Tanya has Claude occupied, Jin slinks back, just in time to see Franco reach under his jacket. 

Slipping his undone tie off his shoulders, Jin approaches Franco from behind just as the bigger man draws his pistol. He knocks Franco's arm, forcing a shot to go wide, then leaps onto his back from behind. Arms crossed with the ends of his fanciest tie in each hand, Jin pulls the material taut around his neck, using it as a makeshift garotte. 

Franco falls deliberately backward, all of his weight slamming Jin's head and shoulders against the concrete floor, but the smaller man doesn't let go, steadily pulling his tie tighter. Hu dashes over before Franco can aim and shoot, kicking the gun out of his hand and leaning over his chest, pinning Franco's arms to the ground until he stops struggling. 

Jin doesn't let go for another full minute. 

Outside, Tanya whacks the woman in yellow across the face with her crowbar when she moves toward the sounds of fighting in the warehouse, knocking her out. Before she can really go to town, Jin dashes out, wrestles her back, quickly pointing toward where Hu has their brother's arm slung over his shoulder, but Cheung is unresponsive. "Something's wrong," he says tersely, picking up the spare length of rope and quickly binding Claude's arms behind her back, then dragging her onto the pier, out of the way. "Please."

"He's so light," Hu says, lowering Cheung to the cot when Tanya signals for him to lay him out flat. Fighting to keep his voice calm, he nods toward the table, sliding his folded-up jacket under Cheung's head. "He's not hurt anywhere, but there's glass all around the chair." 

"Still breathing," Tanya reports, taking Cheung's pulse, eyes settling on the dark needle holes scattered on his left forearm. Hu follows her gaze, immediately taking his arm and rubbing his thumb over one of the wounds, as if trying to wipe the marks away. "What else is around there?"

"Spoons. Lighter. A couple hypodermics. Looks like he struggled and broke some." 

Cheung's eyes slide open at the sound of Hu's voice. Blinking when his brother immediately looks down, he flashes him a lopsided, sleepy smile and extends a hand, clasping Hu's.

"It's heroin," Tanya says. "But it shouldn't look like that."

"Isn't heroin white?"

"Experimental kind," Cheung offers weakly as Jin crouches down by his leg, one hand closing tightly over his knee, "but I wouldn't know about quality."

"If you're still alive," Tanya says, patting Cheung lightly on the arm, "it'll wear off soon. Let's get out of here."

Jin and Hu dash as one to the door, looking outside onto the empty wharf. They move for Franco's body, checking for a pulse before dragging it to the edge of the dock and dumping him into the water. When they come back for Cheung, they sling his arms over their shoulders, supporting him while he staggers back to the truck with them. When Tanya passes Claude, she stops, the triplets nearly running right into her back. In one deft move, she shoves Claude off the pier with a foot, then half-jogs back to the truck.

Hu whistles, glancing over the edge of the jetty. "Stone fucking cold, Ms. Tanya!"

Tanya shrugs. "Mr. Pentecost said leave no one alive."

* * *

"Mason! Our jackets."

The coat-check girl hands over the clothing, moves away as soon as Mason's back is turned and Grey steps into her place. He tosses two pistols across the lobby, then takes a shotgun from under the counter, cocks it, shoots point-blank into the back of Mason's head.

Stacker catches one weapon and Curtis the other-- the skinny bald man simpering at Wilford's heels takes a slug from Curtis's gun right between the eyes. With his sniper's aim, Stacker almost empties his pistol, one shot into Wilford's arm before he can reach for his weapon, another into his shin, two in his stomach, then he puts the barrel of the gun to Wilford's forehead when he collapses to his knees. The entire lobby empties, people screaming as they flee the scene.

" _Fuck_ ," Wilford gasps, starting to blubber. "You can have anything you want. You can take your liquor back, just--"

Stacker interrupts with a boot to Wilford's face, standing on his shoulder when the older man falls onto his back. There's a sick, gleeful voice in the back of his mind that says Wilford will bleed out slowly and in great pain if Stacker left him alone now, but he's never liked loose ends. Leaving Wilford alive means there's a chance to save him, and that's not the kind of risk he'd ever take. "Oh, Wilford," he says, almost laughing, "I don't believe you're in any position to negotiate."

"Please," he begs, clawing at Stacker's leg, trying to push it off his shoulder.

"Right," Stacker answers, stepping back and shooting him cleanly in the forehead. 

Business, not personal.

When Sasha returns with a wad of cash (which she hands to the coat-check girl) she looks disappointedly at the carnage. "You left nothing for me," she accuses Stacker as she leads them out the back and directs the drivers toward the Snowpiercer, Wilford's men lying scattered through the alley, all of them riddled with bullets. 

"This isn't enough for you, Sasha?" Stacker laughs, patting a forged change of ownership contract and Snowpiercer's land title in an inner jacket pocket.

* * *

Jin has one shoulder pressed to Cheung's, Hu doing the same on his other side, both younger Weis looking relaxed for the first time in nearly a month when Stacker strides into the room, a spot of blood splashed on his collar the only sign of his encounter with Wilford. Cheung looks up. His face is pale and drawn but otherwise alert when he raises a hand, flashing him a lopsided grin. "Hey boss."

Stacker extends his own hand, hauling Cheung to his feet when he takes it. Jin and Hu flash each other surprised looks when Stacker throws an arm over his shoulders, then pulls away, clapping him twice on the back. "Welcome home," he says gruffly.

"It's good to be back."

"We need to talk."

"Jin, Hu. Out." Before they have a chance to protest, Cheung looks at them over his shoulder, his expression soft. "Please."

Stacker sits down on the vacated couch, Cheung next to him. Leaning forward onto his knees, he says firmly, "I need you to tell me the exact circumstances under which you were held."

Stacker Pentecost isn't known for handling his employees with kids' gloves, and his brothers have been walking on eggshells since they first got him back. It's a relief for Cheung, even if the details of the story are a bit personally embarrassing. "It was mostly that woman called Claude and Franco." He absently scratches his leg, then crosses his arms over his chest, heel tapping against the floor. "They gave me a bit of food and water, didn't do much to me, other than..."

"The heroin."

"Wilford said he wanted to test out a new kind of batch. He thought I couldn't speak English, I don't know why Franco didn't correct him so I didn't say anything."

"Franco doesn't talk."

"Yeah," the younger man distractedly, "I never understood that."

"Cheung, focus."

"Sorry." Screwing his eyes shut, Cheung drums his fingers on his arms, then looks at him again. "First two weeks, they kept it up once a day, sometimes twice. Then they stopped for... something like four days. I thought I was dying. Worst of it was over before they started again, then they just kept it up until Jin and Hu busted in."

Stacker waits, expecting more, but Cheung ends it there. His brothers are the ones who'd usually throw in a few comments about how _awful_ the entire experience was, but he just looks calmly back. "You know--" Stacker watches Cheung's hands clench into fists, bracing himself, "you know how addiction works, and you've experienced withdrawal for yourself. But, if you want to continue at Atlantica, I'm going to require that you never touch heroin again."

"I didn't want to in the first place," Cheung snarls, voice hoarse. "You think it was my choice?"

"That's not what I'm concerned about at the moment." Stacker puts a hand on Cheung's shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Whatever your plans are, you'll hear no judgment from me and I will make the transition as smooth as possible for you. Right now, I'm just glad you're alive, and that you're back with us."

"I'm not quitting."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Cheung flashes him a weak grin. "Make you handle my brothers on your own? I wouldn't do that to you, boss."


	3. Chapter 3

Cheung isn't a stranger to Pentecost's home, but the idea of staying in it still unnerves him. Tanya had given Stacker a rundown of what to expect, then warned that it would only worsen over the next few days-- Cheung has had a headache for the past twelve hours, been antsy and short-tempered for the last eighteen. "You couldn't just let me go home?" he asks, trailing Stacker into his living room.

"How easily can your brothers obtain heroin?" Stacker asks pointedly, handing him a stack of clothes that Jin and Hu had left at the office. "How quickly would they do it if you asked?"

"I didn't want any in the first place."

"I know. But the next few days are going to be very difficult for you, and if I'm incorrect in my assumption that they may act independently of your wishes..."

Cheung hisses through his teeth, irritated more than appreciative of his little brothers' softheartedness for the moment, but he caves when Stacker cants his head toward the bedroom, the only one with a bathroom attached. "Your room, boss? You should just let me go home."

"I assure you that is what I intend to do at the soonest opportunity," he answers, "for now, you may want to get some rest."

Almost ten hours later, Stacker enters the room. "Your brothers are outside." 

Cheung's buried himself under the covers, woken by the sound of the doorbell and kept awake by the searing pain in his joints. "Don't let them in, please," he says as he curls himself even tighter into Stacker's quilt, cradling his hand to his chest, "I don't want them to worry."

 _I don't want them to see me like this,_ Stacker translates automatically as he steps outside, turning Jin and Hu away with the reassurance that Cheung is fine-- just resting. If Pentecost were anyone else, they would probably ignore him and barge in anyway, but they don't object. Stacker steps back inside. He approaches the bed and reaches into an icebox for a frozen rag and several cubes, which he drops into a glass. "Where are you in pain?"

"My hand hurts," Cheung says briskly, "and... everything, really. Old injuries." He breathes deeply, turns onto his back when Stacker gestures for him to do so. His eyes are glazed, skin slick under a cold sweat-- undershirt almost transparent from it, his teeth clenched. Stacker eases his arm away from his chest and presses the rag to Cheung's knuckles, holding it down when he tries to jerk away, hissing.

"You were under the influence of a powerful analgesic," Stacker explains, gripping Cheung's wrist until his struggling stops, "all the pain you've learned to tolerate from your old injuries was completely gone for the time you were high. Now it's back."

"Aah," he sighs wistfully, eyes sliding shut as his hand slowly goes numb, "no wonder it felt so good."

Tightening his grip so the bones under his palm grate against each other, Stacker continues as Cheung grunts in pain, "And, you will learn to live with it again. I am going to do everything I can to help you get through this, do you understand?"

Cheung clings to the steady authority in Pentecost's voice as he sits up, expression more open than Stacker has ever seen it, and he accepts the glass of ice water gratefully. "Yes sir," he says, drawing an ice cube into his mouth, then crunching it to pieces.

"Feel free to any of the books in my study if you need a distraction. When I can't be here, I will make sure someone is."

Cheung sets the glass onto the bedside table, holding his hand painstakingly steady but nearly knocking it over anyway. He pulls his knees up to his chest and crosses his arms over them. "I don't-- trust myself with anyone right now, sir. I might be better off just locked in here alone."

"Trust yourself to what?"

Looking down. "Not beg."

"And what's stopping you right now?"

Cheung curls an arm over the back of his head and he laughs helplessly into the space between his knees, "Don't want to see the disappointment in your face, boss."

* * *

On the second day, the fourth time in an hour Cheung has to stagger to the bathroom to dry-heave into the toilet, he sits next to the bowl, slumping across the seat instead of dragging himself back to the bedroom. Stacker joins him not long after with a handful of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. He kneels next to the younger man, pressing the compress to the back of his feverish neck.

Spitting a mouthful of bile into the water, Cheung looks sideways at Stacker, bitterly tired and sick. "Why are you doing this? Wouldn't it be easier to find a new driver? You have to start renovating, don't you?"

"Mako is overseeing the remodeling of Snowpiercer's interior," Stacker answers. Cheung is silent, so he continues, "And when I was at my lowest, you and your brothers trusted me." 

"That was nothing."

Stacker hasn't forgotten the day he first approached Liu with his offer. Just before an imminent refusal, Cheung had stepped in, curious about the liquor transportation venture. He'd volunteered himself and his brothers to see Stacker through it-- Liu would get a cut for operations on his turf, but he wouldn't have to deal with the headache of doing business with clubs uptown. "It was only with your help that we managed to become what we are," Stacker reiterates, "I'm returning the favor."

Cheung turns away, burying his face into the crook of his elbow. 

"Besides, you're far more than just a driver." Stacker isn't a tactile person at the best of times, but he immediately recalls the way Cheung and his brothers can barely go three minutes without touching each other. He pointedly squeezes Cheung's shoulder, voice firm, first feeling the muscles under his palm tense and then relax. "You've been indispensable to me, and to Mako, and to everyone in our company. You should know that."

"An addict is a liability, boss." Stacker Pentecost does not invest in liabilities; Cheung had been part of his crew from the beginning, and knows the reasoning behind every one of his decisions. As fair as the man is, he could never afford a weak link. 

Which is true, of course, but Stacker's always been very good at prioritizing. 

"An addict might be a liability," he answers quietly, "but you are not."

Cheung doesn't reply, but he lets Stacker pull him to his feet.

* * *

He hasn't slept for more than an hour at a time for three days, no amount of ice applied able to take the edge off the pain in his joints, a cold shower every few hours the only thing that could temporarily relieve his fever. And now Cheung's sweaty for no good reason, eyes and nose running nonstop. Tanya'd said that the only thing to do is wait it out-- or take a smaller hit to see him through the worst of it.

He had refused, in a brief moment of clarity, but it's all he can think of now. Pentecost had left for a few hours to oversee remodeling at the club, and to renegotiate the terms of their contract with Tendo before their supplier leaves for his next shipment. He'd said that Cheung was welcome to move around the house as he wants, but there's nothing around that particularly interests him. Though he does take the opportunity to rifle through Pentecost's medicine cabinet, turning up very little in the way of relief. 

Nauseous, lonely, and desperately missing his brothers, Cheung drags his feet back to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Not that he wants Jin and Hu to see him so miserable, but after having lived with them his entire life, he feels their absence keenly. 

He doesn't have a lot of time to mope before the front door opens, two sets of heavy boots clomping toward the room. Cheung grins when the knob turns, then he yawns, wipes his nose and stands up to greet Sasha and Aleksis, both of them hauling armfuls of food with them. "I haven't kept anything down in a week," he warns pre-emptively as Aleksis puts down a massive pot of soup and drags him into a fierce bearhug. 

"More space in stomach to eat more," Aleksis growls.

"We are happy to have you back," Sasha says warmly, pecking Cheung on the cheek and then ushering him to sit. "So Aleksis and I made Russian soups for you."

Cheung sniffs, wipes his nose and says sincerely, "Thank you."

"You are crying?"

"I've been like this for days."

"You have been crying for days?!" Aleksis asks, alarmed.

"No! It's not crying, just what happens after--"

"Ah, yes," Sasha interrupts as Aleksis wanders into Pentecost's kitchen for bowls and utensils, "drugs. Boss said you are still experiencing symptoms. Your brothers have not visited?"

"I told them not to. They'd worry."

"They are worried now," Aleksis points out.

Sasha portions out three bowls of soup, a beet-red broth filled to the brim with vegetables and chunks of meat. Then she dollops a spoonful of thick cream into each bowl before passing them around. "They say you may already be dead and boss is hiding body until renovations are finished," she says. 

Cheung snorts, taking a slow sip of soup and then prodding with his spoon at a few chunks of carrot. "It would be the smart thing to do."

"Yes, but it is still evil."

"Tell them I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Sasha retorts, pinching his cheek.

Aleksis reiterates, shaking him by the shoulder, "You look terrible."

"Yeah," Cheung sighs, "I got that the first time."

Hours later, once the Kaidanovskys have cleaned up their dishes and left, Stacker arrives home with Mako in tow to find Cheung sleepily paging through one of the old textbooks Mako has lying around. He pauses on one page, yawns, and continues staring at it for another minute before Stacker nudges Mako on the shoulder and heads to the kitchen. Mako bounds inside, startling Cheung out of his bleary-eyed daze.

"Welcome home," he says weakly, glancing at the clock on Stacker's bedside table. "How are renovations going?"

"Pretty good," Mako chirps in response, leaning over his arm to look at the page Cheung was on. "You're studying math? I have actual books, you know."

"I like math."

Mako likes math too, but she aways feels about ten years younger when she's around any of the brothers (possibly because they're giant children themselves, sometimes), so she wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at him. "You're weird."

" _You're_ weird." Cheung drags her into a headlock, pinning Mako down against the mattress until Stacker joins them. He manages to get in an exasperated, 'Who doesn't like math?' before Pentecost clears his throat. They split apart immediately, Cheung sheepishly shutting Mako's textbook and setting it aside while Mako dashes for the kitchen. 

"Dinner isn't much," Stacker says, "but I believe there's still some borscht in the kitchen, if you'd rather not have egg salad sandwiches."

"You sent the Russians?" asks Cheung as he slides off the bed, swaying slightly on his feet until Pentecost snags him by the arm. "They brought a lot of food."

Stacker confirms, "I thought you might be bored." 

"It was good seeing them." Cheung flashes him a hesitant smile, the familiar, lopsided quirk of his lips hinting at the man he is at full health. Then his gaze slides sideways, to the southern wall in the direction of his and his brothers' tenement. His voice is distant when he says, "Thank you."

Nodding, Stacker moves his hand up to his shoulder and nudges Cheung lightly in the direction of the kitchen to join Mako.

* * *

At four in the morning, Stacker pauses on his way to the toilet when he notices the light still on in his room. It being an ungodly hour of the night, he knocks twice on the door before opening it and stepping inside. Cheung is sprawled out on the bed, eyes open, if narrowed, and he slowly pushes himself up to sit when Stacker approaches. "Did something happen?"

Stacker sleepily pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're still awake?"

"I haven't been able to sleep since I got here," Cheung explains. "I'll turn the lights off next time."

Approaching the bed, Stacker presses one hand to the younger man's forehead, his palm cool against the still-warm (but not burning anymore) skin. "That's not really my concern," he says thoughtfully, watching Cheung close his eyes and lean into the touch. "Your fever's gone down a bit. How's the hand?"

"Not as bad as it was before," he mumbles.

"You haven't been able to sleep at all?"

"Only for a bit at a time." Cheung fidgets when he judges that Stacker's hand has been on his forehead for a few seconds too long, pulling away and regretting it when he's suddenly acutely aware of how warm and humid the room is. But he feels like a little kid around the boss sometimes-- he's supposed to be the big brother, Pentecost's right hand, the enforcer of operations and several other fancy titles they bandy around sometimes. "Can't stay down," he says instead.

"I'll ask Tanya if there's something to be done about that." Stacker's hand lands briefly on his back, steady and firm, before he turns to leave. "Try to get some rest, Cheung."

"Sorry for the trouble, boss. G'night."

At around noon, Hu sticks his head around the door, scanning the room. 「Bro?」

「Boss said you told him to keep us away,」 Jin says indignantly, pushing Hu ahead of him into the room as Cheung sits up, 「but he forgot the keys on his desk, so...!」

They pause at the foot of the bed, both of them waiting for Cheung's reaction. The chances of Stacker Pentecost forgetting the keys to his home on his desk is staggeringly low, and all three brothers know it, but when he finally sighs, bumps a pillow out of his way and extends both arms toward his brothers, Cheung flashes them a tired smile and yawns. 「Come here.」

Stacker arrives home to find two pairs of shoes kicked haphazardly off in the entrance (the triplets are, if nothing else, easy to predict when it comes to each other). He opens the door to his room, quietly, feet making no sound on the carpet, to find a tangle of limbs on his bed. Jin has Cheung's head clutched to his chest, one leg thrown over his waist; Hu's pressed to his eldest brother's back, both arms tight around his neck.

He can't imagine being able to sleep in that position comfortably let alone for hours, the way Cheung seems to be doing for the first time in what seems like forever (the state of the blankets is not something that can be achieved in a few minutes), but Stacker says nothing and retreats to the guest room he's been staying in, peeling off shoes and socks before settling at his desk.

A few hours later, he hears Mako enter the foyer. Moments before her usual _Tadaima!_ , he hears a delighted gasp. Mako pops her head into the room to greet him, then dashes to where Jin and Hu have woken up and started moving around. They brought dinner, leaving it in the kitchen with Stacker's keys as a peace offering with a note of thanks before they went to find their brother.

Cheung is unconscious through all of it; the petty bickering, scuffling, casual conversation, the sound of his brothers talking and laughing a better sleep aid than anything off a pharmacy shelf.

* * *

The next morning, Cheung's in the kitchen when Stacker wakes up and wanders in, idly peeling an apple with the pocket knife Jin had left for him before the younger Weis went home the night before. He looks up, gestures briefly at a plate of apple slices on the counter and shaves off a piece of his own fruit before popping it into his mouth. "Morning, boss."

"I know you didn't want your brothers here," Stacker says pre-emptively, not entirely sure how Cheung would react. He also takes a slice of apple, glancing over his shoulder at Mako's room before biting into it.

"I told them to climb in through the window next time," Cheung answers immediately, flashing him a crooked smile. "Real sorry about your keys."

"I still need to punish them for that."

Cheung turns away to hide the gentlest expression Stacker has ever seen on his face. "Take it easy on them, boss."

Mulling it over for a second (or at least pretending to while he finishes his apple), Stacker gestures vaguely in the direction of the Atlantica office. "They can be responsible for your meals for the remainder of the time you're here. I think that's sufficient."

"That won't be too long," Cheung comments lightly, "fever's down, aches are easing up, breathed through my nose this morning for a whole minute. I'll make them clean the bathrooms."

The younger man isn't known for joking around, and Stacker looks curiously in his direction while Cheung starts on another apple, the motion beginning to look more like a nervous tic than his usual purposeful movement. Stacker decides that there are worse tics than compulsively peeling fruit, so he doesn't comment on it. "You grew a sense of humor while you were here?"

Cheung pauses, looks up and cants his head to the side in confusion. "Just giving you a thorough report."

"Never mind."

Stacker lets them fall into a comfortable silence, but Cheung hasn't had many people to talk to lately, and quiet as he is he's accustomed to being surrounded by noise (courtesy of his brothers). He fidgets, flipping the knife between his hands now that he's run out of apples, and pins Stacker with a curious look. "Today's your day off?" 

"That's right." Stacker settles at the counter across from Cheung, glancing at his watch. "I'm taking Mako out for breakfast when she wakes up. Anything you'd like?"

"No, thanks."

"I'll be home most of the day," Pentecost continues, reaching for a can of coffee grounds before Cheung slides a mug and then an entire pot across the table to him, the tin still scalding hot. 

Flashing Pentecost a wary look, he answers promptly, "I'll stay out of your way." 

"I meant," Stacker corrects, pouring himself a mug, then taking a tentative sip, "that you shouldn't feel my presence will curtail your freedom to make yourself at home. After all, it's only under my orders that you're stuck here."

"It's fine, boss." Cheung sighs, "I've been taking up space in your house for so long that I know how you take your coffee."

"Barely two weeks."

"Two weeks is a pretty long time."

"You've been loyal to me since you were Mako's age," Stacker practically groans, downing his coffee in one quick gulp-- some remnant of his days in the RAF. He stands up, already beginning to unbotton his pajama shirt as he shuffles back to his temporary room to change. "Please, Cheung. Perspective."

"You pay us well."

"And when I couldn't pay you in '21?"

"You're a smart man." Cheung watches his employer move through the door he'd pointedly left open in lieu of interrupting their conversation. He flips his knife shut, folds his arms across the countertop and drops his chin onto them when he answers matter-of-factly, "We figured you would work it out somehow, but we were also prepared to scatter if you got yourself killed."

"Well, know that I'm flattered and grateful anyway."

Cheung lets the subject drop, ceding Pentecost's point that in the grand scheme of things, he hasn't really imposed so much on anyone's life that he should be feeling bad about it. Still, he's most comfortable discussing business. "What's going on with the Wilford mess?" he asks. "White man's dead because of us."

"A white man who has been revealed to be dealing in large amounts of not only heroin, but cocaine." Stacker appears in his doorway, pressed white shirt untucked, one side of his braces hanging at his side, the other haphazardly pulled over his shoulder. "One of which is on the verge of being declared illegal, and another which has been for a decade." 

"But he's still dead, and we're... us."

"Mr. Everett has been charged with the deed," Stacker explains, a bitter note to his voice, "and will probably be hailed as a hero for it, Herc tells me. They're trying to get him back on the force."

"Good thing we had him, then."

"And that he didn't decide to turn on us."

There are very few people in the business, or on the fringes of the network in New York City, who still think betraying Stacker Pentecost might be a good idea. Cheung and his brothers had handled several in their first year, but after, once they'd established themselves, it had stopped altogether. It wasn't that no one could pin a crime on Stacker (the police wouldn't even need evidence to drag him out into the streets, they're all well aware), but that if they did, his team was effective enough to wreak the sort of havoc only a natural disaster could bring in retaliation.

Cheung doesn't remotely trust most Americans, and he knows Pentecost doesn't either. There's only one person whose loyalty he's never seemed to question-- "But you don't have any doubts about Sergeant Hansen."

"We've known each other for a very long time." Stacker pauses, carefully weighing his words before he says, "My reasons for trusting him amount to more than just the money I put in his pocket."

After a long pause, "You two were...?" asks Cheung, trying to be tactful and failing miserably. 

"I was referring to a long history of prior cooperation outside of whatever personal relationship we have." Stacker pins him with a dead-eyed stare, visible even from across the kitchen. "Even if I weren't, that going to be a problem?"

"Boss," Cheung answers, "the Chinese are a little less fussy about who you choose to sleep with, and a little more concerned with how you treat them."

"How so?"

"There's an old story about an emperor whose lover fell asleep on a robe probably worth more than my entire building, so he cut off a sleeve to keep from waking him up." Cheung never was much of a storyteller, and he's heard it told much better than the summarized version he's giving Pentecost, but the point is clear enough. "It says nothing but good things about you, that you've stayed friends for so long."

"Funny," Pentecost says, "I've heard that same story about a cat."

Cheung shrugs. "Nothing says love like clothing destruction. Maybe your people took the story and changed it."

"'My' people?"

"Sorry, the British."

"That's all history now," Stacker says, pointedly ending that branch of conversation as he moves out of Cheung's line of sight. Stacker emerges again just about fully dressed, a pair of cufflinks in his hand as he approaches he counter for more coffee. 

Cheung picks up one pair of the silver cufflinks, delicately pries the pieces apart and gestures for Stacker to extend his wrist. He and his brothers have helped each other secure tricky pieces of clothing for as long as they can remember, though it's usually Mako taking over for Pentecost. "Do you have family? Other than Mako, I mean."

"None here." Relieved that he won't have to finagle the things one-handed, Stacker obligingly lets Cheung clip both cufflinks into place, expression focused as he lines the corners up exactly, then tugs the edges of the sleeve to sit more comfortably. "My older sister is still in London. Parents passed away many years ago."

"I didn't know you were a youngest child," Cheung comments, a bit surprised. He looks over his shoulder when Mako shuffles out of her room, scrubbing at her eyes. "You don't seem like it."

Stacker moves the plate of apple slices to the counter in front of Mako. "I'll take that as a compliment."

* * *

On the seventh day, Stacker wakes up to the sound of lively conversation and the smell of... frying oil? He wanders into the kitchen to see both younger Weis settled along the counter in the kitchen, Mako between them. Cheung looks up, nods at him in greeting, then grabs a bowl and a rice paddle Stacker assumes the brothers brought with them.

"You made breakfast?" he asks blearily.

"Thought you might want to eat something cooked at home," Cheung answers, not meeting his eyes. 

Mako laughs, biting happily into a slice of sweet potato tempura, the batter already dripping sauce. Jin and Hu chopstick-duel over a piece of shrimp while Cheung pops an oyster into his mouth, just out of the frying pan. 

"We brought the ingredients over," Jin says, "shrimp, oysters, some fish, broccoli, zucchini, asparagus... lots of things. Straight from the market."

Stacker doesn't cook much, and Mako's studies take up so much of her time that even if she were inclined to, she wouldn't anyway. Cheung had mentioned offhand that he's always done it for his brothers. Too poor to buy ready-made or fresh food when they were younger, but having three mouths to feed. "I take it you're feeling better," Stacker says, eyes on the way Cheung is still moving carefully, occasionally leaning against the counter.

"Our parents used to say that as long as you're eating well, sleeping well, and shitting well," Jin tells him, "it's a good sign you're healthy."

Hu bites a stalk of asparagus in half, then holds the rest of it up toward his brother on the ends of his chopsticks, motioning him closer. "Our big brother's almost halfway there."

Cheung lets Hu shove the last bit of asparagus into his mouth, but pushes at the side of his head. "Thanks for announcing that to the table," he snarls after chewing and swallowing, but he lets it go when Jin reminds him that he's lucky Hu didn't decide to get specific.

The brothers settle into an easy silence while Stacker inspects the food in Mako's plate. "This is Japanese," he observes, a bit suprised. 

"We worked in restaurants for a few years," Jin explains, "before we were old enough to fight. Better at Chinese, but it takes more energy." 

"I'm not exactly partial to Chinese food myself," Stacker says idly, suddenly acutely aware of the sharp looks thrown in his direction. "Went once to the place on Mott that came highly recommended to me, but."

Cheung snorts but says nothing, a smirk visible for a second on his face before he turns back to the burners. Neither of his brothers seem to take it personally after his explanation and Jin asks around a mouthful of rice, "You ever go _with_ a Chinese before, boss?"

"We'll take you sometime," Hu says helpfully at Stacker's pause, pushing a piece of broccoli around the bottom of his bowl. "If you don't ask for the other menu, you're gonna be eating stuff that's been soaking for days in that sweet and sour slop Americans like so much."

Mako gags, suddenly mindful of the fact that that's exactly what they had eaten. Stacker has to wipe the expression of shock and disgust off his face as well while the Weis laugh sympathetically. "I heard the owners tried to cook properly at first," Hu explains, "but it was all things like chicken feet and pig ears, so no Americans would come. He did some experiments, then..."

Chicken feet and pig ears doesn't sound so bad to Stacker-- using parts of animals most Americans would toss out sooner than put in their mouth isn't unfamiliar to the communities he'd traveled through upon arrival to New York. "I wish you'd told me," he sighs, "five years ago."

"We thought you knew!"

"You always seemed like you knew what you were doing in Chinatown..."

Cheung doesn't say anything, setting a bowl piled high with rice and a smaller plate with a meticulous arrangement of fried goods on it in front of Stacker. Along with a pair of chopsticks. Jin whistles at the amount of food Cheung had portioned out to their employer ( _That's how you know he likes you, boss!_ ) and Hu leans over, almost onto his arm to watch him try his hand at it. When he picks up the chopsticks and easily begins to eat, the younger Weis let out a groan of disappointment.

"I taught him that," Mako tells them, smug.

* * *

On the ninth day, Cheung steps out of Stacker's bathroom in his undershirt and trousers, a shirt under his arm. He uses a corner of the towel slung over his shoulders to dry behind his ear, then flashes Stacker a grin. "I think this hellhole is ready to see me gone," he laughs, then pauses. "No offense, boss. It's a very nice hellhole."

"None taken," Pentecost answers, vaguely unsettled at the idea that he might be seeing far less of Cheung from now on, back to business from the comfortable ease they'd finally settled into. "I'd ask Tanya to come in and look you over, but I believe you're clean."

"And _clean_ , too. I want to marry your shower."

It's the first time in nearly two weeks that Cheung doesn't look like he's in some combination of misery and restlessness. He's terrible at hiding his own condition and even worse at lying, so Stacker doesn't push him. "Your brothers will be happy to have you back with them."

The thought of being with his brothers puts a goofy, lopsided grin on Cheung's face, the kind of expression that could probably only come on the tail of extended separation, even if they had dropped by nearly every day toward the end. He quickly schools the expression, biting his lip as he regards Stacker again. "About my behavior for the past few days," he says, "I took a lot of liberties here. It wasn't my place."

"As I've said before," Stacker answers dismissively, a bit probing, "no apologies required. It was no trouble to have you here. But... you have been acting strange."

Cheung inhales deeply, drops his towel onto the bed, then steps forward until they're practically nose-to-nose. He takes a second to weigh the events of the past few days in his mind: every look thrown his way, every gentle touch to his shoulder or arm or back. The way Pentecost's looking at him now. "Does this," he says, leaning in and pressing his lips firmly to Stacker's, then drawing back, "explain everything?"

It's the old Cheung-- clear-eyed, his shoulders drawn back, posture straight. All traces of pain in his voice and bearing gone, replaced by a challenge, and bright red ears. 

"Yes," Stacker answers, mouth dry. 

"Your answer?" Cheung prompts, pointedly biting off the 'boss' he and his brothers would usually toss in out of habit.

 _Was that really a question?_ is the thought at the forefront of Stacker's mind but he says warily, "If this is a result of the past few weeks, you may want to reconsider."

"It's not," Cheung answers, the corners of his mouth quirking up, "For you, maybe it is, but for me... my brothers have been razzing me about this for years. So many years I learned the word 'razzing'."

Stacker nods, then deliberately winds an arm around Cheung's waist, forearm solid against the small of his back as he draws the younger man forward, bony hips knocking against his own. His other hand rises to cup his chin, thumb stroking over the sharp jut of his cheekbone. A low chuckle rumbles up from Stacker's chest into Cheung's. "Poor you," he answers, humoring him.

Surprised but pleased, Cheung rolls his hips against Stacker's and closes the distance between their mouths again, hands on his cheeks and jaw and neck, grinning against his lips, "I suffered for you," he teases, "all that time."

Stacker pulls back, eyes searching Cheung's face. The man in front of him considered, of all the ordeals he'd lived through in the past few years of working for him, his brothers mocking him to be the one that brought the most anguish. Pentecost turns them in place, backing Cheung up against the wall and resting a hand against his neck, feeling a deep, slow pulse under his palm.

"You have," he answers sincerely, "and for that, I'm sorry."

A wince. Fingers plucking nervously at his collar. "This... is why I don't make jokes."

"If I could have prevented what happened to you," Stacker tries to continue, voice stuttering slightly when Cheung presses a slow, wet kiss to the underside of his jaw, "know that I would have done everything in..." 'my power' fades when Cheung's hands close on his belt, deftly undoing the buckle, the buttons on his braces.

Then he pulls Stacker forward, hooks a leg behind his knee and draws it up, grinding himself down on the older man's thigh. "You were saying?"

"Never mind."

* * *

Cheung has him undressed in seconds, hastily pushing the shirt off Stacker's shoulders, trousers and underwear drawn down to his ankles and then tossed aside. When Stacker lifts the hem of Cheung's undershirt, he obligingly raises both arms-- as soon as they're free, he wraps them around Stacker's neck and drags him close, craving the sensation of skin on skin. 

It's been many years since Stacker has been with someone so impatient (What it must be like to be young again, he thinks, then shoves the thought away), but he lets Cheung do as he pleases, dragging his fingers down Stacker's chest and stomach, wonderingly tracing over the puckered skin over his old scars, then ducking to graze his teeth and tongue over one dark nipple, thumb drawing slow circles around the other. He's hesitant at first when he wraps his fingers around Stacker's half-hard cock but quickly gets over it, stroking down its length, drawing his thumb over the head, a look of deep concentration on his face as it fills his hand.

Stacker quickly divests Cheung of his trousers as well, moving forward to pin him against the wall, one hand reaching behind to splay itself over his back, fingers grazing the dip of his spine. Cheung hisses through his teeth, refusing to make eye contact until Stacker bumps their foreheads together, forcing him to look up. 

"Nervous?" he asks. "First time?" he asks after another beat, somewhat more concerned.

"No!" Cheung makes a strangled, indignant sound in the back of his throat. "... kind of." 

"Kind of?"

After an awkward pause, "With a man. Is it really that different?"

Stacker inhales, pulling Cheung into a deep, languid kiss before his hand shifts, palm sliding down his back. His voice changes, dipping what feels to Cheung like three octaves, his accent rougher than usual, dropping the proper rounded English he'd always taken pains to speak with. "You want to see how different it is?"

Cheung tenses up. But he doesn't move away, still nestled comfortably between Stacker's chest and the wall, expression wondering, apprehensive and painfully aroused, all at once. "Alright," Cheung agrees after mulling it over for a long minute. "Show me."

"You're sure?"

"I trust you."

Stacker's always known him as a suspicious and arrogant man. Cheung doesn't trust easily, and even though he'd stopped doubting Stacker entirely years ago, he'd still questioned every order of Stacker's that he didn't understand-- rarely for himself, but invariably when his brothers would be most at risk. Now, Cheung's looking at him like Stacker's the most brilliant thing he's ever seen in his life. 

Stupid, Stacker thinks, pulling Cheung away from the wall and to the bed. Trust is stupid. Trust gets you killed. Stacker's never been worried about Cheung getting killed for trusting too much-- until now. "On your stomach," he says instead, watching Cheung flop onto his stomach, drag the blanket along with his towel under him before looking over his shoulder. "That's fine," Stacker tells him, unscrewing a small jar of Vaseline and slicking his fingers.

Not that Stacker's ever questioned it, but he's reminded again of how beautiful the triplets are-- scars and bruises and cuts and all. Cheung's back looks like it was carved from marble under the hand of a master: even relaxed, every muscle is visible under his skin, shifting and rippling every time he moves.

Those same muscles bunch nervously as Stacker works him open, until Cheung finally relaxes around his fingers, no sign of discomfort other than the occasional shaky breath or glance over his shoulder. Then Stacker splays one hand across the younger man's back, the other solidly gripping his hip as he settles over his thighs and nudges his knees apart. When he finally pushes in, Cheung doesn't make a sound but he pulls up two handfuls of Stacker's sheets and presses his forehead into the mattress, stomach hollowing inward as his back curves.

Like a startled cat, Stacker thinks fondly, stroking his palm over the bony jut of Cheung's shoulder. "How do you feel?"

"Strange."

Stacker pulls back, almost completely out, but then he pauses, thumb rubbing slow, rough circles on his hip. He carefully positions himself, one hand braced by Cheung's ear, when he asks, "Strange?"

"Always thought of it as a one-way h _aah_ \--"

Leaning down, hips flush against the curve of Cheung's ass and chest pressed to his back, Stacker murmurs into his ear, "Now?"

It takes Cheung a few seconds to process the sensation, but he gets over the surprise quickly. "Do it-- nnh, again." He licks his lips, clenching around Stacker's cock, back and shoulders flexing with the motion as he braces himself, rocking back as far as he's able to. "Harder."

Stacker obliges, thrusting deep and slow while the man under him writhes, stifling quiet gasps into the pillow. After a while, when Cheung's entire body is flushed and warm, Stacker straightens, pulling lightly at his shoulder. "On your back," he commands gently, helping Cheung free his legs, hitching his knees up around his waist. "Don't touch yourself," he adds when Cheung reaches for his own cock, slick and straining, painfully hard. 

He can't even string together a complete sentence; Cheung gives him a plaintive, "Hurts, boss," then falls expectantly silent.

Stacker drags one hand up his thigh, dropping a bristly kiss against his knee before locking it between his arm and his side. He returns the confused, worried look Cheung gives him with a firm, "Trust me."

Cheung's hand drops, fingers curling in the sheets, muscles in his arms cording against the urge to bring himself off. His head cants back as Stacker grinds into him again, resuming the pace they'd set earlier. 

Back arching, shoulders pressing into the sheets as his hips lift off the mattress, meeting Stacker for each thrust, Cheung comes first. He's silent, teeth clenched while Stacker's own movements become erratic and less measured with Cheung tightening around him, muscles clenching and relaxing in turns as he rides out his orgasm, spilling over his chest and stomach. 

The sight of it drags Stacker over the edge and he feels himself lose all pretense of control when he drops forward onto his elbows, Cheung's legs dragging him deeper as he presses his lips against the flat of the other man's chest, the taste of sweat and bitter seed on his tongue as he comes. 

Cheung's already boneless, exhausted and breathing hard and still reeling, when Stacker pulls out of him. Just for kicks, Stacker closes his mouth around one nipple, dragging the flat of his tongue against it and then pulling off with a wet kiss, smiling at the startled yelp it draws while their nerves are still raw. 

When Stacker settles next to him, Cheung turns his head and stares right back, dark eyes holding the gaze, chest rising and falling while he desperately sucks in air. "You knew... it would be like that?" he asks, not bothering to dance around the subject.

"I did."

"If you want," he continues, looking away, his face red, "next time, I could... ah, you know. Or something less tiring... whatever you want."

After an amused silence ( _Next time?_ ), Stacker nods, then rolls over onto his back. A callused hand closes tightly over his wrist. 

"Alright."

* * *

"Hey boss," Cheung says after about ten minutes of comfortable silence, lazily dragging a few fingers across his stomach, streaking his come over his abs, "what happened with the Wilford business? I heard you almost ate a big loss."

"I was prepared to absorb it and let bygones be bygones," Stacker answers, forcing himself to sit up past the warm, mellow lethargy up and picking up a rag, taking it to dampen in his bathroom and then cleaning himself off while Cheung lounges on his bed. "Then I saw you high. Do you remember what you said?"

"I don't remember seeing you at all until I got back."

"You told me it wasn't safe, and that I should leave." At Cheung's confused look, he wets his lips, then sighs, reaching for a pair of briefs and his trousers. "I was surprised. I shouldn't have been."

"Did you really go alone?" He doesn't say out loud that it sounds like Stacker'd made up his mind before that, if he'd risk going somewhere alone with Wilford's men. Cheung comments instead, "It _wasn't_ safe."

"Worry about yourself in that kind of situation. Please."

He grunts in acknowledgement when Stacker, trousers on now but otherwise undressed, joins him again and presses another clean rag into his hand. Cheung cleans himself up, sleepy and slow, but thoroughly. When he finishes, he sits up and lobs the rag and the dirty towel across the room, cleanly into Stacker's laundry bin. "I should go find my brothers."

"Can you walk, or--"

Cheung flushes, face and ears and neck-- right down to his shoulders. "I'm fine."

"No need to be modest."

Before Cheung can reply, someone pounds on Stacker's door, two brief raps. Jin calls out, "Boss, we're coming in!"

Years of living with two brothers, any propriety between them nonexistent, have honed Cheung's reflexes to a degree unseen in just about anyone else Stacker's ever met. He blinks, and the eldest triplet has drawn the quilt over his crotch. He blinks again and his door slams open, Jin coming to a screeching halt in the entrance. Hu plows into his back, then squawks indignantly when Jin immediately turns and slaps a hand over his youngest brother's eyes.

Hu's nostrils flare, and then his mouth slides sideways into a leer as he pulls Jin's hand away from his face. "About time, you two."

"We were going to ask if you wanted to come to lunch with us," Jin says, backing out of the doorway.

Hu adds as he pulls the door shut behind them, "But we'll just bring something back!"

Cheung buries his face in his hands. The sound of laughter and footsteps dashing down the corridor echo back.

"Next time," Stacker sighs, "we lock the door."


End file.
